


His Father's Eyes, His Mother's Nose

by TheJediAreGay



Category: Star Wars (Marvel Comics), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Conflicted Darth Vader, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt Luke, but still badass Luke, under some not so great circumstances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJediAreGay/pseuds/TheJediAreGay
Summary: Months after the Battle of Yavin, Luke is captured by the Empire and tortured for information. While Luke struggles to survive long enough to find a way out, Vader searches for answers as to why this rebel pilot was wielding Anakin Skywalker's lightsaber.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I've been blindsided by some Star Wars fics in the past, I want to state right now that no, there is absolutely no incest in this story. I'm not down for that. With that being said, I hope you guys enjoy!

Luke wakes up to a blinding white light washing over him.

His eyes are closed, that much he can assess, but the light still manages to pierce through his eyelids and startle him into awareness. His mind is still foggy, having just come out of unconsciousness. It takes a few moments for the pain to hit him.

And when it does, it hits him hard.

His entire body aches. He thought he knew pain before. But being attacked by sand people, crashing his speeder, barely crawling out of several battles with his life, they all seem like minor scrapes compared to the pain he’s feeling right now.

Every part of his body feels heavy as lead. His lungs burn with the effort it takes to draw in a breath. Sharp waves of pain travel up and down each of his limbs. Even his eyelids ache in protest when he attempts to open his eyes, so he merely gives up.

Maybe that bright light is death. Isn’t that what people talk about? Seeing a bright light right before entering whatever afterlife it is their world believes in?

Or maybe he’s simply disappearing like Ben did, becoming one with the Force?

With some effort and even more pain, Luke finally manages to force his eyes open. He immediately squints against the light shinning down on him. It’s even more blinding than before. While blinking rapidly to adjust to the light, he wracks his brain trying to remember how he got here.

Wherever “here” is.

He was with Leia and Han, pretending to be envoys from the outer rim to gain access to Cymoon 1, he remembers _that_ much. They managed to get to the reactor and start the process of blowing the place right out of the galaxy.

Then Darth Vader himself showed up.

After that, his memories blend together in a haze of explosions and blaster fire. Only a few moments stand out. He remembers freeing slaves, confronting Vader, narrowly escaping, hopping onto a speeder, racing towards the _Falcon_ , Vader chasing after him, getting a shot in…

_The speeder._

The last thing he remembers, he was crashing his damaged speeder in a desperate attempt to get away from Vader.

Is he dead? Or maybe he’s still laying in the wreckage of his fiery speeder, too far gone to feel the flames slowly engulfing his body?

 _Calm yourself, Luke,_ he thinks desperately. _You’re awake. That’s a good sign._

If he was dead, he wouldn’t still be in pain, right? Every time Ben’s spirit appears to him, he appears as he knew him on Tatooine; completely whole. His body isn’t cut in half by a lightsaber wound.

So it only stands to reason that death makes people whole again. And right now, Luke doesn’t feel very whole.

He curses inwardly. After that encounter with Vader and the severity of that speeder crash, he _should_ be dead. How he’s still breathing is beyond him. He’s not even sure he wants to continue breathing. The thought of facing Mon Mothma and admitting that he was the one that nearly cost them the mission by going after Vader is more terrifying than the prospect of death.

All the rebels are instructed within the first week of training and told again before each mission that if they see Vader, they are to turn and run immediately. If that means the mission is a failure, then so be it. Even High Command realizes that when Vader becomes personally involved in a battle, no amount of blasters or cannons can stop him. Of course, some rebels ignore that order and try to hold Vader off.

There's rarely a body left to send home.

Luke never thought he would be one of those people.

He always thought that when he faced Darth Vader, he would be prepared. He dreamed of the moment for months; storming up to Vader, pulling out his lightsaber, and fighting for the vengeance his father was unable to seek himself. Even if he couldn’t best Vader, at least he would put up one hell of a fight.

But it only took Vader a few minutes to snatch the lightsaber right out of Luke’s hands and nearly kill him and his friends. It was pure luck that they managed to escape his grasp. They could have made a swift exit if only he hadn’t overestimated his skill and went to face a Sith Lord on his own.

Vader was right. Luke is no Jedi.

_Ben, wherever you are, I’m sorry._

Growing restless, Luke peers downwards to look over his injuries. He just wants to know his legs are still attached so he can get out of here and back to his friends. The thought that he doesn’t even know where his friends are doesn’t stick in his head for long. Those worries are best left for when he’s fully lucid.

His jacket is gone, his shirt and pants are both covered with dirt and sweat, and his belt and boots are missing. Otherwise, he can’t spot anything amiss.

Except for an IV drip sticking out of his arm.

He blinks a few times, wondering if the pain is making him hallucinate. He has no memory of making it to the _Falcon_ , much less to a med bay. Did Han and Leia somehow manage to come back for him without Vader noticing? It doesn’t seem likely, but what other explanation is there? But something about that IV… it bugs him.

If it weren’t for that IV, Luke wouldn’t even know that he’s in a med bay. He’s still wearing the clothes he crashed in. He has no bandages, no bacta smeared on his skin, they didn’t even bother to wipe the dirt off his skin. Not to mention no pain relief. All they gave him was an IV. Something so basic, designed only to keep him alive, not to heal him.

Tearing his eyes away from the IV, Luke looks around, taking in his environment.

He’s in a room. A _small_ room. The walls and floor are almost blindingly white. Bright fluorescent lights bare down on him so intensely that looking straight at them feels like staring directly into the twin suns on Tatooine. Besides the IV and the cot that Luke lays on, the room is completely bare.

Luke has been in many Alliance med bays in his time, more than he would like to admit, and none of them looked anything like _this_.

This looks too austere. Too… suffocating.

Despite his grogginess, Luke can sense that something is terribly wrong.

His hairs stand on end as all his senses scream at him to just _get out_.

He tries to raise the arm not connected to the IV. His muscles ache in protest, urging him to stop his efforts. He’s almost inclined to listen to them. But the panic wins out over the pain.

With a small grunt, he manages to move the useless limb over his torso and flop it down on top of his other arm. He grips the needle between his thumb and pointer finger and rips it out.

Blood starts trickling down the small hole left by the IV. With all the strength left inside his body, Luke slams his hand down on the cot and uses it to push himself to the floor. Sharp pains shoot up his legs, traveling through his stomach, into his arms, setting his whole body aflame. There’s nothing to do but grit his teeth and keep going.

He hits the floor back first, his legs slumping over to the side like a rag doll. The groan of pain bubbles up in his throat, but he swallows it down.

If he doesn’t know where he is, that means he doesn’t know who might hear him.

Turning himself onto his stomach, he slaps his hands down onto the cold linoleum and starts sliding his body towards the door. He has to bite down on his lip to stop from hissing in pain when the IV wound rubs into the floor.

His head pounds, black dots floating around in his line of sight. If he moves a centimeter further, he feels as though his organs will shut down from the strain he’s forcing on his damaged body. He can’t possibly keep going. But he has no other choice. He _needs_ to get out. The Force is screaming the danger of the situation at him, too loudly for him to ignore.

If he could just reach the door…

With a _woosh_ sound, a blast of cold air suddenly smacks Luke in the face.

He closes his eyes, relishing the feeling on the countless tiny cuts the mar his cheeks and forehead. It reminds him of getting cuts while messing around in Beggar’s Canyon with Biggs and running home to Aunt Beru, crying like it was the end of the galaxy. After wiping his tears and washing his wound with what little water they had to spare, she would blow on it to cool it down. It didn’t do much in terms of actually healing him, but the motherly gesture never failed to make him feel better. For just a moment, he allows himself to go back to that time and take some small comfort from it.

When he manages to drag himself out of his memories, he finds himself eye-to-eye with thick black boots.

“Contact Lord Vader. He wanted to be alerted when the boy awoke.”

Luke is far too sapped of energy to tilt his head up and see the source of the voice, but the mention of Vader’s name gives him all the answer he needs.

He’s been captured by Imperials.

His arms finally give out.

The Imperial in the black boots kneels down in front of him. Luke grimaces at the withered face and the beady eyes of the officer who is now right in his face. He wants to fight him, snap at him, spit in his face, do _something_ to show his utter hatred of them and everything they stand for. But he can barely even keep his eyes open.

“And what are we to do with you in the meantime, rebel?” the officer whispers with a smirk.

“We don’t need him awake until Lord Vader arrives,” the other voice supplies. “He needs to be hooked back up to that IV if we want him to survive the first round of questioning.”

The Imperial officer’s smirk turns into a little frown, obviously not fond of the suggestion.

“Very well. You got lucky this time, rebel.”

He takes the blaster from his belt and, before Luke can even attempt to crawl away, smacks him over the head with brute force.

When Luke falls unconscious this time, he dreams of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and a time when leaving Tatooine was a blessing instead of a curse.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, when Luke wakes up, he knows he isn’t alone.

He senses another being in the room before they make a single noise. It’s a stifling presence that takes the air right out of his lungs. The malicious intent from this person leaks through the Force so potently that even his untrained senses pick up on it.

Whoever it is, Luke doesn’t want them to know he’s awake. Not yet, anyways. So he keeps his eyes firmly shut and takes stock of his body.

The pain hasn’t faded - no surprise there. He doesn’t feel an IV needle in veins either. At least the fog has lifted from his mind. He’s completely, tragically lucid.

_That’s gonna make the interrogation 10 times worse,_ Luke thinks, internally wincing.

The prospect of his impending torture terrifies him. He’s been briefed on Imperial torture methods. He _knows_ how they break their prisoners. 

A little voice in his head whispers that maybe if he keeps pretending to be asleep, the interrogation will just never come. It’s irrational, but Luke’s just desperate enough to consider it.

_C’mon, Luke,_ he urges himself. _Leia’s been through this and she survived. So can you._

Sucking in a deep breath, Luke finally opens his eyes.

He turns his head to the side and sees an Imperial officer sitting beside his cot, looking down at a data pad in hand. A quick glance at the man’s face confirms for Luke that this is the same man who knocked him out earlier. He has the same worn face and deep-seated eyes. The leathery, cratered skin makes him wonder if the man is from Tatooine as well.

It doesn’t take long for the Imperial officer to look up and realize that Luke is awake. He gives him a smile that Luke would find disarming on anyone else, but on him, it speaks of nothing but ill-intentions.

“You’ve been out for quite some time, little rebel. Did the rest ease some of your pain?”

Luke keeps his mouth firmly shut.

Telling them anything about the Alliance was never an option, but he’s already decided that he won’t engage them in any way. These Imps get off on that banter. Why give them the pleasure?

He’s already preparing himself for a violent response to his insolence, but the officer just chuckles.

“I could tell you’d be a tough one,” he says, leaning forward in his seat. “Not many people have the strength to drag themselves across the room with two broken ribs.”

Well, at least now Luke knows _one_ of the things wrong with him.

The Imperial Officer - who Luke decides to call Wrinkles - stands up out of his chair on thin, shaky legs that barely fill out his uniform gray pants.

If Luke could move his body, he’s sure he could take him.

“Are you afraid?”

He is. He is _very much_ afraid. His heart is already threatening to beat out of his chest in anticipation for what’s to come.

Not wanting to show his weakness, he turns his head to stare up at the ceiling, refusing to answer.

“Despite what your rebel propaganda leads you to believe, I am not a monster. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Luke rolls his eyes. Is this supposed to be a new Imperial interrogation tactic he hasn’t heard about? Trying to make him feel bad for his interrogator?

“Like you, I have my orders,” Wrinkles continues. “I don’t necessarily enjoy this part of my job.”

He sighs, almost theatrically, and glances behind him. Luke follows his gaze.

How did he not notice the spherical, floating droid in the corner of the room?

The droid matches the description he’s been given of an Imperial interrogation droid. He remembers the haunted look in Leia’s eyes as she explained to him the various needles hidden within its compartments, filled with chemicals that can make a person beg for death within seconds. They have scalpels meant to peel a person’s skin from their body, probes to shock them, little hammers to break their bones, and that’s as far as she got before her eyes became glassy and she had to excuse herself.

Luke watches with his heart in his throat while the droid slowly glides towards him, stopping as it reaches Wrinkles’s side.

“I don’t want to have to do this,” Wrinkles insists. “You know what’s coming. Just tell me your name for starters, and I can call off this droid so we can work something out ourselves.”

Despite the overwhelming fear clawing at his chest, Luke doesn’t consider the offer for a single second.

A voice is screaming out to him through the Force, a voice that sounds eerily like Ben, telling him to keep his name to himself. The overwhelming feeling that something terrible will happen if he reveals his identity flows through him.

He just glares at his interrogator in a clear sign of refusal.

Any semblance of kindness or camaraderie that Wrinkles was trying to build with him disappears from his face once he realizes Luke isn’t going to cooperate.

“I knew you'd be a stubborn one. Just remember, little rebel; I tried to be reasonable.”

He turns his head, addressing the droid.

“IT-O, administer the stimulant.”

The droid beeps in response and a needle filled with an opaque white substance pops out of one of its many compartments.

Luke throws his broken body against the wall, as far away from the approaching droid as he can get. He tries curling his legs up into his chest to protect his body, but the pain radiating from his core makes it nearly impossible. 

There’s no exit, no grand escape plan, no miraculous rescue. Not this time. Just a feeling of helplessness as the needle digs into his exposed arm.

He hisses, more out of shock than pain.

“No need to panic just yet,” Wrinkles laughs. “That was just to keep you lucid throughout the questioning process. It will do you no harm and should wear off in less than 24 hours.”

Luke glares at him.

“IT-O, you may proceed with the standard interrogation process.”

Another hatch opens and out pops another needle. This one is filled with a clear substance. It almost looks like water. It’s deceptively harmless looking.

But Luke knows this is where the real pain begins.

He tries to mentally prepare himself for what’s to come. No matter what happens, no matter how much pain he’s in, no matter how desperately he may want to just make it all stop, he’s determined not to say anything.

He’d rather spend the rest of his life in pain than say something that could harm his friends.

The second needle goes in in the same spot as the last. This time, he’s aware that it’s coming, so the pain is bearable.

Until the droid injects the content of the needle into his arm.

The burning begins almost instantly. It feels like flames licking up his arm, slowly spreading across his chest. It constricts his lungs, taking his breath away. His insides burn. It spreads across his skin, as if he’s being boiled alive in the twin suns of Tatooine.

Luke struggles to gasp in a breath.

It feels like all he’s inhaling fire. There’s no relief for his burning lungs.

“You feel that, little rebel? Do you want it to stop?”

_I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—_

His limbs go numb. He’s sure his blood is boiling inside his veins. It feels as if he’s cooking from the inside out.

“Just tell me your name. All you need to do is tell me your name, and I can make this stop. You want that, don’t you?”

Luke bites down on his bottom lip until blood floods his mouth. 

He _does_ want this pain to stop. It’s unbearable, and he’s being forced to be alert throughout it all. There’s no hope of blacking out and getting a short reprieve. If he could gather enough air in his lungs to speak, he would be begging for death.

Because he can’t, he does the next best thing.

He spits blood onto his interrogator’s shoes.

Wrinkles looks down at his soiled shoes in disgust, giving Luke some satisfaction.

The feeling doesn’t last long.

“IT-O, administer electroshock nerve probes.”

Several long, spindly cords shoot out of the droid and attach to Luke with their suction cup ends. A terrified gurgle escapes his throat as he realizes what’s coming.

_Leia, Han, Ben,_ someone _please—_

Powerful shocks spread throughout his chest and for a moment, he thinks _this is it_. The shocks are going to stop his heart and he’s going to die here in this Imperial holding cell with no one to notice or care. His friends will forever wonder what happened to him, and the Empire will continue searching for the pilot who blew up the Death Star, never knowing they already killed him.

_I’m not ready._

A physical scream rips its way out of his raw throat, and a mental scream travels to the only other Force-sensitive sentient on the ship.

* * *

Vader stands on the bridge of the _Executor_ , examining the weapon in his gloved hands.

The weapon that had once been _Skywalker’s_.

Just touching the saber brings an onslaught of painful memories from his last days using it. He funnels all that pain into the Dark Side, fueling his anger.

It was an insult to watch the sloppy way in which that boy held it, poised for a fight. His stance was sloppy, his attempted strikes abysmal. Vader has seen younglings with more skill and precision than that boy.

But even Vader cannot deny that the rebel’s Force presence was strong. The strongest he’s seen since…

A guttural scream tears through Vader’s mind with no warning, blasting through his mental shields like an explosion set off in the Force. If he was a weaker man, he would have collapsed to the floor from the strength of it. As it is, he’s clenching his fists hard enough to make a spiderweb of cracks along the glass of the viewport surrounding him.

_The boy_.

He’s projecting his despair so loudly it’s a wonder that every sentient in the galaxy aren’t gripping their heads in pain. The boy retreats from the Force just as quickly as he came, leaving Vader with a dull throbbing sensation in his head.

He grips the lightsaber tighter.

There’s no doubt in his mind that this is the boy Kenobi brought aboard the Death Star. He must have taken the boy on as an apprentice in a desperate attempts to create more Jedi.

From what Vader has seen of the boy, Kenobi did a poor job of training him. He has the raw power, but none of the discipline.

Vader thought even his former master was above giving away _his_ former lightsaber, as if it was _his_ to give. It may be a remnant of a life that is no longer his own, but it still belongs to him. It’s the saber he used while beginning his journey to the Dark Side, and it’s the saber he would have continued to use, had Kenobi not stolen it that day on Mustafar.

To add insult to injury, he then handed it off to an untrained rebel who had the audacity to challenge him with it, screaming something about Vader killing his father. He would have struck the boy down on the spot, had he not realized whose weapon he was holding.

So when he fished the boy out of the rubble he lay beneath, he decided to let him live. At least long enough for him to find out why exactly the boy had _his_ lightsaber.

As foolish and arrogant as Kenobi was, he had his own twisted logic behind every decision he made. He knows Kenobi had a reason for giving the boy this lightsaber in particular. The Force tells him that much.

“Lord Vader, sir.”

Vader turns around, looking down at Admiral Ozzel. The shorter man is unsettled by Vader’s presence, and Vader allows the Admiral’s fear to wash over him through the Force. Most of Vader’s crew fears him, but Ozzel in particular reeks of it every time he approaches.

Vader revels in it.

“What is it, Admiral?”

“Colonel Stryker has reported little success with the prisoner,” he says. “He is… unusually resistant, my Lord.”

“How resistant?”

“He has yet to say a single word in two days of captivity.”

The news comes as no surprise. A child that strong in the Force should be expected to have a stronger than average will.

But like everyone else, he can be broken. It’s just a matter of what methods to employ.

“Colonel Stryker is asking for more time than has been allotted to him, at least by two—,”

“Tell Colonel Stryker that he is excused,” Vader interrupts. “I wish to question this prisoner myself. He will step down until such a time when I decide his services are needed.”

The Admiral’s face turns a bright red. Vader can tell he wants to object outright, but he values his life far too much.

“B-But sir, the ISB sent the Colonel with the guarantee that he is their absolute best—,”

“I do not care what kind of accolades he has been given, Admiral,” Vader snaps. “Tell the Colonel that I will be with him shortly. Unless of course, you wish me to assign someone else as messenger?”

The threat is clear in his words. Assigning someone else the job means assigning someone else his position. And soldiers aren’t simply demoted on Vader’s ship.

Admiral Ozzel shakes his head fiercely.

“N-No sir— I mean yes sir! Yes, I will deliver the message.”

The Admiral turns on his heels and marches away, his relief palpable in the Force.

One day, Vader will be given a reason to dispose of him. For now, he gets to continue breathing.

He clips the lightsaber to his belt, next to his current one.

The closest that rebel will ever get to touching this lightsaber again is when Vader inevitably slices him in half, just like he did to the boy’s master.


	3. Chapter 3

“Just give me your name, or I can make this infinitely more painful.”

Luke doesn’t know how that’s possible when he already feels as though he’s going to break into a million pieces.

He's been poked, prodded, and shocked for what feels like hours. Throughout the entire process, he hasn’t spoken a word beyond incomprehensible screams and groans. Every time his name is about to pass his lips, he bites down on his tongue until it becomes bloody and swollen.

He _cannot_ tell.

But it’s getting harder and harder not to give in just for the promise of a short break from the pain.

Wrinkles sighs in frustation. It seems his infinite patience is wearing thin.

“IT-O, administer bone fragmenters.”

A hammer shoots out of the droid and slams into Luke’s shin, making a sickening cracking sound. He cries out and prays to all the Gods of every religion that his bone is only broken, not shattered.

Every time he thinks he’s getting used to the pain, he’s proved wrong.

“This isn’t the worst I can do. Talk now, or I may just lose my patience.”

It takes an enormous amount of effort for Luke to muster up a bloody smile for his interrogator, but the strain is a small price to pay to see the anger pass over his face. The sliver of satisfaction it gives him almost makes the consequences worth while.

“IT-O, repeat the same action on the left leg.”

_No no no, I can’t escape if I can’t walk, I can’t escape if I—!_

Luke moans in pain as he feels his other leg break. Along with his mobility goes what little hope he has left of leaving this holding cell alive.

Even if the Imps were to leave the door wide open and unguarded, Luke still wouldn’t be able to walk out. He’s totally, completely, _pathetically_ helpless.

For the first time in a long time, Luke feels tears beginning to gather behind his eyes. They burn, begging to be released. He seriously considers letting them loose, his pride be damned. But he’s afraid that once the dam is broken, he’ll lose all his resolve and start talking.

He shuts his eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears.

“Just a name, little rebel,” Wrinkles repeats. “Just a name, and I don’t have to hurt you anymore.”

_Just my name,_ Luke thinks. _I just have to give him my name, and this will be over._

It would be so easy. So simple. It wouldn’t harm the Alliance in any way.

Just his name. One little, unimportant thing…

He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

_No._

He may get a small break if he reveals his name, but then he’ll be right back where he started; getting drilled for another piece of information with the promise of relief if he gives in. And if he tells him his name, what else will he tell him?

Wrinkles shakes his head in disapproval.

“Wrong decision. IT-O, administer—,”

He’s cut off by the _woosh_ sound of the door to the cell opening. Luke watches with trepidation as another Imperial officer enters the room and approaches Wrinkles.

“Colonel, Lord Vader wishes me to give you a message.”

A mixture of fear and fury rises up in Luke’s stomach at the mention of his father’s murderer.

“And?” Wrinkles asks, obviously annoyed. “What are you waiting for? Tell me.”

The Imperial officer glances at Luke, and then back to Wrinkles.

“With all due respect sir, I don’t think the prisoner should be privy to this conversation.”

Wrinkles whips his head around and glares at Luke with disdain. Luke reciprocates the look, though he’s sure his glare looks far less menacing than he would like it to be.

“Of course, Admiral,” he acquiesces. “We can talk outside.”

The two officers walk out together, leaving Luke with only the off-duty interrogation droid to keep him company. It only takes a few seconds of the thing looming over him for him to decide he prefers Wrinkles. At least the officer doesn’t have hammers for hands.

Scooting to the edge of his cot, Luke strains his ears in an attempt to hear what they’re talking about. If it’s something that involves him, he doesn’t want to be kept in the dark. Even if it’s news about his impending death.

He hears nothing.

Cursing under his breath, he lets his head drop back down on the cot.

_Of course_ the room is soundproof. Why would he expect anything less from an Imperial holding cell?

_My screams of pain would be too distracting to them otherwise,_ Luke thinks bitterly.

The door opens again and Wrinkles marches in.

And boy does he look _pissed_.

A vein is bulging in his forehead, his face red with anger. His hands are shaking as he points at Luke accusingly.

“You are going to tell me what I need to know, and fast,” he hisses.

Luke can’t contain his snort.

_Yeah, sure I will._

Wrinkles lands an unexpectedly strong backhand to Luke’s cheek that has him seeing stars. He feels his head swimming, struggling to keep a hold on reality.

“Your name!” he screams in Luke’s face. “Give me your damn name!”

Luke groans, his head lolling to the side. The words reverberate around his head, making his headache worse. He digs his hands into his hair. His head feels like it’s going to fly right off his shoulders.

Wrinkles lets out a grunt of frustration and uses his elbow to dig into Luke’s already broken ribs. The pain knocks the breath right out of Luke’s lungs.

He feels as though his abdomen is being cut open and his insides poked and prodded. The pressure on his lungs keeps much needed air from entering them. Black dots begin to swim across his vision. 

The pain of that chemical they pumped into him seems almost preferable to this.

Wrinkles eases up on him slightly, and Luke sucks in a breath.

“Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me your name or I’ll make you vomit up what little you have left in your stomach.”

Luke’s hand twitches. He itches to reach up and push his arm away…

“That will not be necessary, Colonel.”

The baritone voice distorted by a heavy assisted breathing sends a chill down Luke’s spine.

_Vader._

The elbow digging into Luke’s ribs suddenly eases up completely. A fierce coughing fit overcomes him, making his ribs pulse with pain.

“Lord Vader, I was under the impression that you wouldn’t be coming to relieve me until later this evening.”

“Then you were mistaken. You are dismissed, Colonel. If I have need for you later, you will be contacted.”

Luke doesn’t give much thought to the exchange happening in front of him. He’s too busy trying to swallow back his vomit.

* * *

Vader looks down at the slip of a boy laying before him.

He must admit, he’s slightly impressed with Colonel Stryker’s work. The boy is curled in on himself, retching helplessly. His skin is pale and slick with sweat that makes his dirty hair stick to his forehead.

He looks thoroughly broken.

Vader can sense the boy’s Force presence is dimmed, a sign that he’s just barely clinging onto consciousness. However, he has not yet retreated from it entirely. No matter how broken he may _look_ , he is not quite there yet.

No matter. Vader can remedy that.

He leans down in front of him, grasping his chin to tilt his head up. If he looks past the bruise blooming on his cheek and the pallor of his skin, the boy’s face is the picture of youthful innocence. No matter the horrors he’s sure the boy has seen during his time with the rebellion, his Force signature is still bright and childish. He can’t be older then twenty.

Despite the boy’s obvious pain, he remains defiant. His eyes scrunch up and he tries to shake off the hand holding him in place. Vader grips his chin tighter.

“I could snap your neck with only one hand,” he states flatly. “You will not escape me so easily.”

The boy’s eyes snap open, blazing at Vader with more hostility and disdain than he has seen on even the most radical of rebels.

Except, perhaps, Princess Organa…

But unlike the Princess, this rebel refuses to hurl insults at him to show just how deep his disgust runs. Instead, he unconsciously projects his righteous anger through the Force.

Vader drinks it in, allowing it to fuel him.

He lets go of the boy’s chin and runs his hand down his face. It gives him some pleasure seeing how unnerved the boy is by the distinctly paternal action.

“You have so much potential,” he tells him. “And you choose to waste it on the rebellion. And the _Jedi_.”

His words earn a snarl from the boy. He’s no doubt thinking of Kenobi, remembering how Vader struck him down. He must have been close to the old man.

The boy can’t see it now, but he did him a favor. Kenobi would have disappointed him eventually.

Vader moves his hand up to the rebel’s hair, catching it in a vice grip. The boy winces and tries to squirm away.

“You are unwise to lower your defenses, boy.”

It takes mere seconds to blast through the boy’s fragile mental shields and delve into his mind. The boy gasps, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Such a violent intrusion is sure to cause mental discomfort, if not outright pain.

Vader sorts through the boy’s jumbled thoughts. Most of what the boy shoves to the surface for Vader to find are declarations of unbridled hate for him, as well some laments of pain. They’re weak attempts to deflect from what he doesn’t want to be seen. Vader pushes them aside, going deeper.

_The twin suns beat down on a little blond boy, who watches with bleary eyes as a man shows him how to fix a vaporator._

_In a small homestead, a smiling woman holds the little boy on her hip as she stirs a pot of stew._

_A fresh faced teenager stares up at the night sky, dreaming of flying across the galaxy the way the father of his dreams did._

_That same teenager, a little less fresh faced, screams out in terror as he watches his Master cut down._

They’re all deeply private moments that the boy no doubt never wanted him to see, but they’re still of little use to him. He couldn’t care less that the boy is a farmer from Tatooine.

Vader reaches out for another more promising thought when he meets resistance. The thought is being pulled further into the boy’s head, while Vader’s probing Force presence is being pushed further out.

The boy is putting up his mental shields.

It’s impressive that he’s able to do so in such a weakened state, but they’re still no match for Vader’s superior strength. He begins reaching for the same thought again, gleaning bits and pieces of it.

_Kenobi._

_Sand people._

_A lightsaber._

_“Obi-Wan… Now that’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time…”_

A violent pulse in the Force reaches out towards Vader, shoving him away from the memory. With a scream of ‘ _get OUT!’_ , the boy shoves him out of his mind so forcefully he has to grip the edge of the cot for support.

This injured, untrained, _little boy_ gathered the strength to shove Vader out of his mind.

The raw power the boy carries within him excites Vader. He’s either a blank canvas to be molded in whatever image the Sith desires, or a threat to his power and position in the galaxy. He doesn’t know whether to kill him the second he gets the information he wants or keep him around to explore his remarkable Force potential. Such indecision is not usual of him, but he finds it thrilling. _Fascinating._

The Emperor will be kept in the dark. Vader will make sure of it. This prisoner is _his_.

For right now, the boy is unconscious. The effort it took to battle Vader’s mind probe must have taken all he had left in him. In sleep he looks even younger than before. Vader sweeps the hair out of the rebel’s face, red-tinted lenses skimming over his face.

_Something about those eyes, even while closed, they’re… achingly familiar._

Vader decides to give the boy a rest. Another session so harsh could potentially kill him. He’ll have to take his time with the rebel, wearing him down until he’s unable to resist Vader poking around in his head.

In time, the boy may tell him what he wants to know willingly just to escape the torment Vader intends to inflict upon him. That interrogation droid is nothing compared to him.

As he leaves the holding cell, he comms Admiral Ozzel.

“Admiral, I want our high priority prisoner fed and given basic medical care. If he dies, rest assured you will follow soon after.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone asking why Vader didn't recognize Owen and Beru from Luke's memories; he saw them once when they were in their 20s and probably never gave them a single thought afterwards.


	4. Chapter 4

A splitting headache greets Luke the second he awakes. It doesn’t feel like any normal headache where the pain is just gathered around his temples. Somehow, it feels like his brain itself is aching. He brings a hand up to massage his head.

The memory of Vader’s presence in his mind only makes his headache worse.

Like he’s done every day since he’s been stuck in this cell, he looks down at his body to make sure nothing is amiss. He doesn’t trust the Imps not to cut off one of his limbs in his sleep.

To his frustration, his shirt is bunched up at his upper chest, preventing him from seeing past it. When he reaches to pull it down, his hand brushes up against something coarse. He grunts in confusion and places a hand on his abdomen. It’s completely covered in this rough, itchy _thing_.

Panic grips his heart for a brief moment. It takes an embarrassingly long few seconds for him to realize that it’s gauze that’s wrapped around his broken ribs, and only then does his panic disappear.

It’s a primitive way of treating his injury when he knows very well they could just as easily use bacta, but at least he’ll be able to breathe a little easier without that pressure on his lungs. Vader must want him alive if he allowed him to be treated.

He’s not sure if he should be happy about that or not.

Turning his head to the side, he spots a glass of water resting on the chair where his interrogator would usually sit. Next to it is a plate of bread and some fruit he doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t look anywhere near fresh, but it’s edible. He hasn’t eaten in _days_. His stomach growls at the sight…

_Knock the food over,_ a defiant voice in his head growls. _Don’t take anything they give you._

If they’re giving him food and treating his wounds, that obviously means they plan to keep him alive for quite a while. They’re going to keep him here as long as it takes to get the information they want out of him. But if he refuses to eat, refuses to stay alive…

_They can’t get information out of a dead man._

Just the fact that the thought even crossed his mind makes him shiver violently.

A member of his squadron once offered him a small capsule full of a deadly poison to sew inside his cheek. In the case of capture, all he would have to do is bite down hard and break it for a quick death. Luke didn’t know where he got it, but he knew he had no intention of using it.

Now, he wishes he had taken him up on his offer.

Another shiver goes down his spine.

_No, I_ can’t _think like that._

If he’s going to be questioned again, maybe he _should_ eat. The weaker he is, the easier it will be to accidentally let something slip out. He needs his strength.

Reluctantly, he reaches out and grabs a piece of bread off the plate. He’s drooling before it reaches his mouth.

He takes a small bite, mindful of how sensitive his empty stomach must be. The bread is hard and tasteless, but after days of no food, it tastes better than anything he’s had in a very long time.

It takes what feels like hours for him to finish all the food on his plate and wash it down with lukewarm water. His stomach aches in protest of too much food too soon, but he tells himself that it will settle down soon. Now he just has to make sure he doesn’t puke it back up during his torture.

Now that he’s eaten, are they going to send in his interrogator? Or maybe they’ll be polite and let him digest his food first?

_Because Imperials are well known for their kindness._

He wonders if they’ll be sending in Wrinkles or Vader today. Neither option thrills him, but Wrinkles is seeming like the lesser of the two evils. He could go as far as to say he _misses_ the man; at least, when he’s in Vader’s presence he does.

Wrinkles brings Luke greater physical pain, but Vader’s interrogation left him feeling… _violated_. Knowing that someone has invaded his mind and saw some of his most treasured childhood memories and darkest moments makes him feel physically ill.

No one, not even his closest friends, have any right to those memories. Those memories are all he has left of Uncle Own and Aunt Beru and Ben. They’re _his_.

The thought of his mind being rooted around in again fills him with dread. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to continue resisting.

Why can’t Vader just slap him around and break one of his limbs instead?

He turns his head to the side when he hears the door sliding open, not wanting to see who’s walking through it.

The mechanized breathing tells him all he needs to know.

He shuts his eyes tight and tries to shove his most intimate memories into the back of his head. All thoughts of the Alliance or his life on Tatooine are banished from his mind.

A tense minute passes where Vader says and does nothing. He just looms over Luke with that unnerving breathing being the only thing that tells him he's still here.

Force, he misses Wrinkles.

* * *

A flicker of amusement passes through Vader’s being as he watches the boy stubbornly refuse to acknowledge his presence. It only takes a gentle probe of his mind for Vader to sense his mental shields. They’re stronger this time around, but still not strong enough. If he wanted to, he could blast through them in seconds.

Instead, he places his hand on the boy’s cheek and forcefully turns his head around to face him. His eyes are firmly shut, like a child who doesn’t want to be caught staying up past his bedtime. It’s a subtle way to show his defiance. Like most rebels, this boy doesn’t know when to concede.

Vader has found that mind probes are the most effective when his target is forced to look at him throughout the process. His domineering presence and emotionless mask are usually enough to get the weaker ones spilling secrets he never even asked for. Even the most radical Alliance members don’t stand a chance against a Force user who can easily pick up on the thoughts they’re desperately trying not to think about.

But Vader has never had to interrogate another Force-sensitive sentient before. He usually wastes no time in killing them.

The boy flinches when Vader tightens his grip on his cheek, but he still refuses to open his eyes. The bruise that was just beginning to form the day before is now a violent smattering of blue and purple spreading across his cheekbone.

Vader slaps him in the same spot.

The boy’s eyes fly open with a sharp gasp of pain. Vader slips past the mental shields in the split second that the boy focuses on the pain rather than on guarding himself.

He’s prepared for the boy’s resistance this time around. He throws useless memories at Vader; him fixing a speeder, him flying his X-Wing during the Battle of Yavin, him ushering Princess Leia Organa out of her cell.

The memory of the Battle of Yavin holds slight interest for Vader, but like the rest, he pushes it to the side and dives deeper. 

He can question him about Yavin later when he’s on his knees, begging him for death.

It would be only too easy to search for the location of the current rebel base, but that information is of little consequence to Vader. The rebellion is an annoyance that will be dealt with accordingly when the time is right. This rebel at Vader’s mercy is his primary concern. And he knows that delving into personal memories is what will make the little boy squirm.

With some effort, Vader is able to push through the walls that guard the boy’s most precious thoughts. He sorts through them relentlessly.

_The princess gives a tall, roguish looking man a stern telling off while the boy sits on the sidelines, stifling laughter as he watches his friends bicker._

_A group of boys let out exhilarated laughter while flying T-16s through Beggar’s Canyon._

_The boy falls to his knees in front of the burning corpses of his only remaining family, feeling completely alone in the galaxy._

A sob tears out of the boy’s throat and Vader knows he’s found what he needs. He pokes around at the memory, encouraging the boy’s sorrow to grow. It spills out through the Force. Knowing that any remaining Jedi hidden throughout the galaxy can feel this boy’s torment gives Vader a grim sense of pleasure.

Tears start falling down the boy’s cheeks. He’s staring right at Vader, too wrapped up in the memory to really see him. His mouth opens in a silent scream.

“Are you ready to cooperate now?” Vader asks.

The boy lets out a strangled whimper, but says nothing. He’s bending, but he’s not yet broken. Vader is beginning to grow impatient.

This memory is obviously the boy’s worst. Forcing him to relive Kenobi’s death would be cruel, but not as effective. It doesn’t seem like he was as close to Kenobi as most padawans are to their masters.

But if one of the happy thoughts he pulled out of his head gives any indication, it _does_ seem like he’s close to the Princess.

Vader personally saw to the Princess’s interrogation on the Death Star. He stood by while she was injected with various chemicals to make her susceptible to suggestion. He made her believe her body was being torn apart from the inside out. He forced her to keep her gaze on Alderaan as the Death Star blew it to pieces.

If the boy cares for the Princess as much as Vader senses he does, then being forced to see her writhe in pain for hours on end should get him to utter a few words.

Tossing the boy’s memory aside, Vader offers up his own. The boy prods at it unconsciously. He has such little knowledge of the Force, it seems he has never had someone share a thought or vision with him. His curiosity at this new sensation is winning out. It is all too easy for Vader to push the memory on him.

_The Princess lays prone on a bench, glancing between the interrogation droid and Vader. She’s trying to exude a haughty disinterest, but the nearly imperceptible tremor in her hands betrays her fear._

_“This blatant demonstration of martial law will_ not _stand in—,”_

_Vader stops her words with a raised hand in the Princess’s direction. Nothing comes out of her mouth except some pitiful choking sounds. She scratches at her collar in a frenzied attempt to fight off the attack, but the effort only forces more air out of her lungs._

“No…,” the boy murmurs.

_“Now, Princess, you will feel your body being set aflame.”_

_With a snap of his fingers, the invisible hand around her throat it gone. Now she has enough air to let out a blood curdling scream. Her back arches off the bench to escape the flames that aren’t there._

“Please…”

_The Princess bats at the invisible flames covering her dress, but they only grow larger and scorch her hands. The pain she’s experiencing is something Vader knows well. If anyone deserves to feel their skin bubble and burn away, then the rebel princess does._

“Stop it, please!”

_“Okay, Princess, the flames have been put out. Now your charred skin is going to be pulled off your body strip by strip to—,”_

“STOP! Please, stop it, _please_!”

Vader lets the memory fade and looks down at the boy. He’s sobbing in earnest now. Through the Force, Vader can feel a potent mixture of anger, fear, sadness, disgust, and devastation. The only thing that outweighs his desire for revenge on Vader is his heartbreak for his friend.

“Tell me your name or I’ll make you watch the Princess scream as she feels knives digging into her skin.”

The boy closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. The last of his tears stream down his red, puffy cheeks. Vader can feel his resignation and revels in it. He doesn’t usually take any joy in interrogations. He views them as a part of his job as much as leading his subordinates or keeping rebel-sympathizing planets in line. But finally getting this boy to break feels like a victory after a long battle. Battling it out with another Force user is exhilarating.

He’s forgotten how that feels.

The boy opens his eyes and looks straight at Vader. Something about his gaze pierces through the lenses that protect Vader from the rest of the galaxy. It’s like the boy is staring directly into the eyes underneath.

“My name is Commander Luke Skywalker.”


	5. Chapter 5

“My name is Commander Luke Skywalker.”

_There_. It’s out. Luke finally broke and gave his name. And worst of all, he gave it to the man who killed his father. _Vader_.

He’s sure that Vader will kill him now and end the Skywalker line, but he can’t bring himself to care. He would have given his soul just to stop those images of Leia from invading his mind. _Leia screaming, Leia twisting and turning in pain, Leia’s glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling as she feels her body go up in flames—_

No matter how hard he closes his eyes, he can’t banish the vision from his mind. It plagues him, merging with the memory of his burning homestead. He can see Leia’s charred remains laying amongst his relatives.

It’s agony.

_Not real,_ he tries to tell himself. _Not real not real not real._

Vader has been oddly silent since Luke revealed his name. He’s grateful for that. If his head is invaded one more time, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist revealing even more. He doesn’t even care if that makes him weak. He’d rather be weak than have to relive his worst memory again and again and _again._

He reaches up and wipes the tears off his cheeks. When he started crying, he’s not sure, but it was the first time he’s done so in a very long time. And he did it in front of _Darth Vader_.

His cheeks heat up with shame. What would his friends say if they knew he cried in front of Vader of all people? He’d be the laughingstock of the Alliance.

For the first time since he was captured, he’s glad to be away from his friends.

“Luke… _Skywalker_.”

The way Vader says his name makes Luke recoil and try to burrow even closer to the wall. He feels a tidal wave of emotions coming from Vader through the Force; anger, disbelief, and…

_Is that a tinge of sadness?_

Whatever emotions Vader was feeling, they end just as quickly as strong mental shields are erected around his mind. Luke can’t feel a single thing from him anymore.

“You’re the son of Anakin Skywalker.”

Luke flinches and looks over at Vader.

It was a statement, not a question.

Of course, Skywalker isn’t a common last name, but some part of Luke thought maybe Vader wouldn’t recognize it. He’s killed hundreds of people at the very least. Vader’s words from Cymoon 1 bounce around in his head.

_“I’ve killed very many fathers. You’ll have to be more specific.”_

He nods slowly.

Another long silence fills the room. It makes the hairs on the back of Luke’s neck stand up on end. That damned mask on Vader’s head keeps Luke from seeing his eyes and having some idea of what he’s thinking. But he can take a guess.

He’s probably thinking he’s going to finish what he started and kill Luke, just like he killed Luke’s father.

Though the thought of dying has sounded tempting at times, his stomach turns over when he imagines being killed by the same man who murdered his father. Maybe even with the same weapon. The satisfaction he knows that would give Vader is sickening.

No, this is _not_ how Luke wants to die.

Vader’s hand reaches out towards his face, and Luke flinches, expecting another blow. To his shock, Vader doesn’t slap him. He just… places his hand on his cheek. His touch is suspiciously gentle as he turns Luke’s head from side to side, examining every inch of his face.

He feels like a droid being inspected by a potential master.

Vader jerks his hand back quickly, as if he’s just been burned.

“You’re the pilot who blew up the Death Star.”

Luke pales.

“H-How did you…?”

Vader ignores his question and turns his head towards the interrogation droid that still looms over Luke.

“IT-O, power down.”

The droid obediently blinks off, settling down onto the floor. The implication of the droid being turned off, leaving Luke completely alone with Vader and his thoughts, makes a shiver run up his spine.

He’d rather have the droid tearing into his body than Vader tearing into his mind.

Or maybe Vader will leave his thoughts alone now that he knows Luke is the one who destroyed the Death Star. The bounty over his head is massive, even larger than the one on Mon Mothma. That alone should earn him an immediate and very public execution.

The surety he has that his death will be coming soon is oddly… _comforting._ When he dies, all his knowledge of his friends’ location will die with him. If he’s dead, at least they’ll be safe.

“Your presence in the Force is very distinct,” Vader says. “I couldn’t place when or where I had felt it before. Until now.”

Luke remembers the close encounter he and Vader had during the Battle of Yavin, when he blew up the Death Star. That must have been when Vader first felt him in the Force.

He usually considers the Force a blessing, but now it’s the thing that is damning him.

“So what happens now?” Luke asks. “Are you gonna kill me right here? Or will you take me to your Emperor first?”

He means for the words to sound biting, but his voice is still hoarse from two days of screaming. It comes out more like a broken whisper. He sounds less angry and more scared.

Which he _is_ , but he doesn’t want Vader to know it.

There’s another long silence during which Vader just stares at him. He shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, looking down at his hands.

_What about a farm boy from Tatooine is so interesting?_

“No.”

Luke glances up at him.

“What?”

“I said _no_ ,” Vader repeats. “I am not going to kill you. Nor am I going to take you to the Emperor.”

Instead of giving him some relief, Vader’s answer fills him with dread. If he isn’t going to be killed, and he isn’t going to be handed over to the Emperor, then that leaves him here. With _him_.

_What does Vader have planned?_

Vader looks him up and down, scrutinizing him.

“What are your injuries?”

Luke says nothing. Even answering that seemingly innocuous question somehow feels like a betrayal to the Alliance. He’s said too much already.

“Answer the question, boy,” Vader snaps. “Or you will not like the consequences.”

The threat is heavy in his words. Luke fears that if he refuses, Vader will invade his mind again. He’ll make him see Leia writhing in pain again, or maybe he’ll make him relive his aunt and uncle’s death again, or Ben’s. Or maybe he’ll create some new nightmare to throw at him.

Even imagining it makes him want to throw up what little food he has in his stomach.

“My… My legs,” he reluctantly admits. “I-I think they’re broken. And my ribs.”

He doesn’t even mention the blinding pain in his head, because he doesn’t think that will _ever_ go away.

Vader clenches his fists at his sides. Luke’s eyes flit from his fists to his mask, fearing another hit to the face. But it never comes.

Instead, Vader abruptly stands up and stalks out of the room.

Luke doesn’t know how long it will be until he comes back, but at least he can breathe a little easier for now.

* * *

The second Vader leaves the holding cell, the door to the cell beside it bends in on itself from the strength of his anger.

_Luke Skywalker. His name is Luke_ Skywalker.

When the name left the boy’s lips, Vader wanted to deny it. He wanted to accuse the boy of lying and demand he take the words back. But the Force practically sang to him the truth in the boy’s admission. It prodded at him, urging him on until it brought him to another revelation.

The boy is his son. His _son_.

He thought it impossible. When… _she_ died, the child should have died with her.

_“It seems in your anger… you killed her.”_

The words have haunted him for 20 years. All this time, he believed he caused the death of his beloved wife and their unborn child. It was the guilt from that event that pushed him further into his anger and despair, fueling his connection with the Dark Side of the Force.

Now the child he thought he murdered is laying in the room behind him, tortured on his command.

_What have I done?_ _What have I_ done _?!_

He marches down the corridors of the _Executor_ in a blind rage. A subordinate that attempts to get his attention on his way to the bridge is thrown against the wall with little effort. Several other officers jump back at the brutal display. The fear rolls off them in waves.

Usually, Vader would take pride in the fear that he can inspire in others. Right now, it only angers him further.

It takes under a minute for him to reach the bridge. Every eye is on him the instant he arrives. He snaps his fingers at one of his subordinates. He recognizes the man as Captain Firmus Piett. The Captain is hardworking and clever, far more so than most of his superiors. Most importantly, his loyalties lie with Vader first, and the Emperor second.

It makes him the perfect man for the job he has in mind.

The Captain leaves his station and jogs up to Vader. The rest of the crew doesn’t dare to approach them, instead keeping to the opposite side of the bridge. It gives them some semblance of privacy.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Call in medical attention for our high priority prisoner,” Vader demands. “I expect him to be _fully_ treated. Bacta patches and submersions if necessary.”

Piett’s brows furrow in confusion, no doubt wondering why a rebel would receive such treatment. But he wisely doesn’t question Vader’s decision.

“I will see to it, my Lord.”

The Captain marches past him to go alert the medic on staff, while Vader walks the opposite way to the viewport.

Gazing out into space has become somewhat of a past time for Vader since the formation of the Empire. Everyone on the ship knows not to speak to him while he’s facing the viewport unless they're bringing him news from the Emperor himself. Moments like this allow him to clear his mind, similar to meditation.

But not today.

Today, his mind is racing. 

He sees the boy’s face. It stares at him from the reflection in the viewport, almost as if it is his own. The hair, the eyes, the dimple in his chin; they all belong to Anakin Skywalker. But the slim build, the nose, the cheekbones; they’re all Padmé.

An emotion he has not felt in 20 years passes through him when he allows himself to think of his wife. He can’t put a name to it anymore, but he knows he doesn’t enjoy the way it makes his chest ache. It’s the same feeling that rose in him when the boy said his name.

_Luke Skywalker._

The name means light on Naboo. It was Padmé’s suggestion. And from what he felt of his son’s Force presence, it fits.

His fists clench and unclench at his sides. Though it’s impossible for him to feel pain in his durasteel limbs, he swears he can feel his hands burn with the memory of slapping the boy — _Luke_ — across the face. Like Kenobi took the hands that choked Padmé, he feels the strong and sudden urge to rid himself of the hands that hurt his son. _Her_ son.

_Kenobi took him from me._

The rogue thought allows him to shift the blame, if just for a moment.

He knew his old master was capable of treachery, but he never dreamed his betrayal could go this deep. To take _his_ son and hide him on that miserable dustball of a planet, no doubt filling his head with lies about his father…

He wishes he hadn’t cut him down so quickly on the Death Star. The old man didn’t deserve such a quick death.

If the memories he ripped from his son’s mind are any indication, his guardians are dead. Vader is truly the only family he has left. They’re _both_ the only family the other has left.

Vader’s clenched fist twitches as he remembers the look on the boy’s face when he dug into his mind. The way his face paled, his eyes widened, a look of shock and terror settling into them…

_Stop,_ he had begged. Just like his mother had that day on Mustafar.

White hot guilt rolls around in his stomach.

He will fix this. After this day, _no one_ will touch his son ever again. 

Not the Empire, who would execute him. 

Not the rebels, who would send him out to be killed.

Not even the Emperor, who would no doubt use him as a replacement for his father.

Luke was tortured under his orders, so the duty of protecting him now rests on his shoulders. He will nurse the boy back to health, get him away from this ship full of people who would like to see him dead, and find a way to win the boy’s heart as he once had Padmé’s.

Then together with his son, Vader will bring about a new era for the Empire. One without Emperor Palpatine.

If anyone deserves to sit on the throne, it’s Padmé’s son.


	6. Chapter 6

Luke isn’t sure when he fell unconscious, but when he comes to, it’s not in the cell he’s grown used to these past few days.

He’s not greeted by the blinding florescent lights that are always bearing down on him. The lights that shine overhead are dimmer than usual. Softer on his sore eyes.

The cot underneath him is far more comfortable than what he’s accustomed to. His body seems to sink right into pliant cushions. Even most places he’s slept in since joining the Alliance can’t hold a candle to the cot he’s on right now.

He blinks the world into focus and takes a look around. There’s no interrogation droid looming over him, no sterile white walls closing in on him. The walls surrounding him are a muted gray, the room large enough to house a row of cots and several powered-down medical droids.

He _must_ be hallucinating, because there’s no chance the Imps would put him in an actual med bay.

His tongue snakes out to swipe at his lips, a nervous habit of his that he can’t seem to break. He’s met with a foul taste. It’s strong and sharp, like the few sips of alcohol that Han convinced him to drink after the Yavin celebration. He can’t contain the gagging sound that escapes his mouth.

“That’ll be the bacta. You’ll be able to taste it for days.”

Luke whips his head around, searching for the source of the voice. The first thing he sees is the severe gray uniform that informs him the voice came from an Imperial officer. When his eyes start traveling upwards, he expects to be met with the weathered face of his usual interrogator, Wrinkles. He almost misses the man.

He misses anyone that isn’t Vader.

Instead, the face he sees is young. Older than him, but still young. His face isn’t as harsh as Wrinkles’s, but it’s not exactly what Luke would call kind. He wouldn’t call _any_ Imperial officer “kind”.

“Bacta?” Luke whispers.

Bacta is expensive, and he’s a _prisoner_. Even the Alliance is reluctant to use bacta on their soldiers unless absolutely necessary. Why would the Imps use it on _him_?

“To treat your ribs and legs,” the officer replies, as if it’s obvious. “12 hours was the recommended minimum, but Lord Vader demanded you be kept in for 20 hours.”

_This is making less and less sense._

“Vader… ordered for me to be treated…?”

The Imp raises an eyebrow, giving Luke a look-over.

“Are you deaf as well?”

Luke’s cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“No,” he mumbles. “I just don’t see why any of you are bothering to treat a rebel Commander.”

The officer merely shrugs and glances down at the data pad in his hands.

“Your guess is as good as mine, but it’s not my place to question my superior. Just be grateful we treated those ribs before they could puncture your lung.”

Luke _does_ feel like he can breathe a little easier now. The pressure on his chest that he has grown so used to is gone. _All_ the pains throughout his body are gone, replaced by a heaviness in his limbs that he can only attribute to drowsiness.

“Um… thanks, I guess…?”

The officer types something in on his data pad, barely glancing up at Luke.

“Don’t thank _me_ ,” he insists. “I’m not the medic.”

Luke figured that much. He would expect a medic, even an Imperial one, to be at least _slightly_ more sympathetic.

“Then who are you?” he asks.

The officer sets the data pad aside to give Luke his full attention.

“Captain Firmus Piett at your service, _Commander_.”

The teasing undertone in his words puzzles Luke. It’s been so long since anyone has spoken to him with anything but contempt that he’s sure he had to have heard him wrong.

“N-Nice to meet you. Um… I’m Luke Skywalker. Uh, _Commander_ Luke Skywalker. Of the Rebel Alliance.”

Captain Piett nods at him, a tiny grin on his lips.

“I know,” he admits. “Lord Vader assigned me as your sort of “handler” for the time being.”

He gives Luke another quick look-over.

“Aren’t you a little young to be a Commander?”

“I’m twenty standard years!” Luke whines. 

His ears burn the second it leaves his mouth. He may be twenty years old, but at times his voice still sounds the way it did when he was still a farm boy on Tatooine. No matter how much credit the destruction of the Death Star gave him, he’s still viewed as a child, and he hates it.

“Like I said, you’re young,” Captain Piett repeats. “But I suppose the rebellion isn’t above recruiting kids.”

Luke bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping back. Captain Piett is the first human interaction he’s had in days that doesn’t come with a slap in the face or a mental probe. He doesn’t care if it’s a betrayal to the Alliance to willingly engage him in conversation.

Surely they can forgive him for this _one_ tiny thing.

“I might be pushing my luck, but while I’m here, am I allowed to use the ‘fresher?”

He must have had that food and water almost an entire day ago, but so far the urge hasn’t hit him. That much, he’s grateful for. He’s heard stories of people… _relieving_ themselves on accident during interrogations. The shame of crying in front of Vader was bad enough, but doing _that_?

Even thinking of it makes his ears burn.

Thankfully, Captain Piett doesn’t seem to notice.

“There’s a refresher adjoining the room,” he replies. “You’re free to use it whenever you would like. I’ll be delivering you two meals daily, during which I’m required to stay here and make sure you eat. The medic on staff will check on your progress at least twice a day.”

The message is clear to Luke.

_I’m going to be here for a while._

“So this is my new cell?” Luke asks.

Captain Piett smiles grimly.

“You could say that. But I think this is an upgrade from your last one, don’t you?”

Luke can’t argue with that. Anywhere beats those white walls and that hard cot and the constant threat of torture breathing down his neck.

But no matter how nice his holdings are, as long as he’s on this ship, he’s still a prisoner. He can’t let himself forget that.

“So,” Luke starts, grinning at the Captain. “Is that an Outer Rim accent I hear, Captain Piett?”

* * *

The only people on the _Executor_ who know about Vader’s sudden shift in behavior towards the prisoner are the medic, Captain Piett, and of course, Vader himself.

Captain Piett, he knows, will not betray anything to the Emperor. Vader found him on Axxila, recruited him, built him up from nothing; he alone has his loyalty. But the medic aboard the _Executor_ was not vetted by Vader personally. She was sent to him by the Imperial Medical Corps.

That makes her a liability, and liabilities must be taken care of.

Vader doesn’t necessarily _want_ to kill the medic on staff. She’s a useful woman who has caused him no trouble thus far. However, she is not his own agent. She still reports to the Emperor. Once Luke’s treatment is done, she will be disposed of.

He stalks down the corridor of his ship with a plan already solidified.

The boy cannot know of his parentage. Not yet. He’s not in the state to accept it. If Vader were to break the news to him now, he would be rejected outright.

Like Padmé rejected him.

The memory of her betrayal causes a new surge of anger to rip through him. Kenobi took his wife from him, but his lies would not take his son away from him as well.

As he approaches the med bay where his son lay, the unmistakably light Force presence becomes even brighter. The boy’s signature is almost blinding. Powerful, _beautiful_ , but blinding. Vader cannot look on it for too long.

The boy feels too much like his mother.

“… a dustball of a planet…”

He can hear the boy wrapped up in a conversation with Captain Piett. His tone is light and playful, so far removed from the pained gasps and whispers that Vader has heard from him before.

If the boy ends up looking to Piett for some semblance of friendship, it could very well work in Vader’s favor. It will help the boy feel at ease on the ship. The sooner he adjusts, the sooner he will be able to accept his parentage.

Squashing any hesitation he had, Vader sweeps into the room. The boy looks up, a smile on his face.

It drops the moment he sees Vader.

“Lord Vader,” Piett greets, but Vader doesn’t spare him a glance. All his attention is focused on the boy, who pointedly avoids his gaze.

“You’re dismissed, Captain.”

Vader’s gaze flickers over to Piett, waiting for him to follow his command. He doesn’t miss the slight hesitation on Piett’s face as he looks at Luke, then back at Vader.

“Of course, my Lord.”

He turns his head to nod at Luke.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Commander Skywalker.”

Luke nods back at him with a grin.

“You as well, Captain Piett.”

Piett walks out of the med bay, the door sliding shut behind him.

Leaving Vader alone with his son.

_His son._

The fact that this little shaggy haired rebel boy is the same child he felt kick within Padmé’s womb… it’s nearly impossible to reconcile. In another life, he imagined a far different future for his child.

But those dreams died along with his wife. Along with _Anakin_. Protection from the Emperor and promises of power are all he has to offer his son now.

The boy looks healthier than he did the last time Vader saw him. His skin has regained its color and his body has been scrubbed clean of dirt and blood. He’s still far too skinny for Vader’s liking. _Of course_ the rebels can’t afford to feed their soldiers.

“I trust your injuries have been well taken care of?” Vader asks, attempting to sound disarming. Civility has been all but useless to him these past twenty years. He always gets what he wants through force.

His usual method will not win his son’s favor.

The boy’s eyes lock on his, blazing with righteous fury and a hint of fear. But he doesn’t give him an answer. He remains rebelliously, _frustratingly_ silent.

Vader clenches his fists at his side, pushing down his rising temper. His son continues to test the limits of his patience, but he cannot allow himself to lose it. Lashing out at the boy will accomplish nothing.

“I am sure you’re suspicious about my motives for having you treated,” he continues.

Luke seems to sit up a little straighter.

“You plan to keep me here for quite a while, don’t you?”

Vader sees no point in lying to him.

“Yes, I do.”

The boy narrows his eyes at him, a mixture of curiosity and anger swirling around in his Force signature.

“What for?” he asks. “For information? Because you’re wasting your time. I don’t have anything that would be useful to you anymore. Even if I did, I’d die before giving it up.”

His determination would be admirable if it weren’t in service for the rebels. If Vader wasn’t already dedicated to the destruction of this insipid rebellion, he would be now that he knows they’ve poisoned his own child against him.

“You’re correct, your information about your rebel friends _isn’t_ of any use to me,” he confirms. “But that’s not what I want to know.”

Luke’s brows furrow in confusion, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

_Are his eyes blue?,_ Vader wonders. He sees the galaxy through red tinted lenses, preventing him from discerning colors. But he can at least tell dark colors from light colors, and Luke certainly doesn’t have his mother’s dark brown eyes. That must mean he has _his_ eyes.

_Those eyes are no longer yours,_ he reminds himself. _Your eyes glow yellow now._

“Then what do you want to know?”

_Everything._

He wants to know who raised his son on that miserable dustball of a planet. He wants to know how old he was when Kenobi began brainwashing him with Jedi doctrine. He wants to know how he became entangled with the rebellion. He wants to know how he never sensed his own child through the Force.

“You were a moisture farmer on Tatooine.”

The statement barely scratches the surface of the questions he has about the boy’s life, but it will do as a starting point.

Luke just blinks at him, looking dumbfounded.

“Yes, I was.”

“You say your father was Anakin Skywalker—,”

“And you killed him,” Luke cuts him off, hostility creeping back into his eyes.

The boy’s words on Cymoon 1 come back to him.

_“You killed my father,”_ he had said. Vader brushed it off and forgot about it. He has killed many fathers, and he told him so.

But now that nuisance of a boy he was battling is his son. And he believes that Vader is his father’s murderer, not his father.

A white hot rage shoots through him.

“Did Kenobi tell you that?” he growls.

Luke raises his chin in defiance. For the briefest second, Vader sees a shadow of Padmé pass over her son’s face. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

“So what if he did?” Luke snaps.

The urge to tell Luke the truth of his parentage is almost too overwhelming to ignore. He wants to purge Kenobi’s influence from the boy completely, this very second.

However, he must force himself to have patience.

“You should not trust everything Kenobi tells you, child.”

Luke flinches, as if the very _idea_ that Kenobi could lie to him is startling. It enrages Vader.

“What are you talking abou—,”

“If you weren’t raised by your father, then who were you raised by?” Vader interjects.

The boy blinks quizzically at the line of questioning. He’s projecting his confusion through the Force so strongly that Vader wonders how he can’t know he’s doing it. The boy feels everything so strongly.

“Um… My aunt and uncle. Why…?”

“What are their names?” Vader presses, struggling to recall any distant Skywalker relatives. It’s been decades since he left Tatooine behind, and the memories are purposefully murky. He can only remember himself and his mother bearing the name “Skywalker”.

Slaves don’t tend to have large families.

“Owen and Beru Lars. Your stormtroopers killed them, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? After all, you’ve killed _so_ many families.”

Vader chooses to ignore the jab and instead focuses on the name. 

_Lars_.

He remembers the last trip he ever made to Tatooine.

The last time he saw his mother.

She had married. The man had a grown son himself.

_“I guess I’m your stepbrother.”_

He remembers the grief that consumed his son’s mind and soul at being forced to relive the death of his aunt and uncle. It’s obvious that he felt a great deal of love for them. 

The boy’s misplaced attachments only enrage Vader even more. They were imposters, parading around claiming to be his family when they barely even knew the boy’s father. Like Kenobi, they stole his child from him.

They deserved what they got. The only thing that Vader feels a tinge of regret for is the pain it brought his son.

But no matter. In time, the boy will learn who his _real_ family is.

“How far along were you in your training with Kenobi?”

The boy purses his lips, and Vader can tell he has no intention of answering. Once more, he has to clench his fists and force down the tendrils of anger growing inside of him, begging to be released.

“If you believe hiding this information from me gives you the upper hand, then you are sorely mistaken,” he warns. “No matter how long Kenobi trained you, I can promise you your skills are no match for mine. Now, _answer the question_.”

Despite the boy’s open defiance up until now, Vader can feels fear pouring out of him through the Force. It brings him no joy to know his own son fears him as the rest of the galaxy does.

He wants his devotion, not his fear.

“A few hours,” he admits, sounding defeated. “I barely knew him until the droid carrying the Death Star plans led me to him. He trained me on the way to the Alderaan system. That was it. I have no other training.”

The news pleases Vader as well as confuses him. Why would Kenobi not take advantage of being so close to his son his entire life?

Whatever the reason, it was the will of the Force that the boy came to him so desperately in need of guidance. Once he wins his trust, he will do what Kenobi could not. He will take his son on as his Sith apprentice.

“Your lack of training will soon be rectified, young one.”


	7. Chapter 7

“You know, it’s kinda hard to eat with you looming over me like that.”

Captain Piett does not look impressed.

The past two days have gone by like clockwork, conforming to the same strict schedule; Luke wakes up, stretches his legs a bit, gets a checkup from the stone-faced medic, eats tasteless rations under Piett’s watchful eye, uses the ‘fresher, has another — very useless, in his opinion — checkup, forces down more rations, and then struggles to go to sleep.

Now he’s on day three, and he’s already beginning to grow restless.

“And _you_ know as well as I that taking my eyes away from you for even a second is a bad idea,” Piett shoots back. “If you were to do something to yourself while I wasn’t looking, it would be my head Lord Vader would be after.”

An irrational, nagging guilt grows in Luke’s stomach. 

_I could be the reason he loses his job,_ he thinks. _And his life._

He knows he shouldn’t feel any pity for Imperials, but a soft heart has always been one of his biggest flaws. No matter how hard he tries, he can never shake the guilt of hurting others.

The memory of killing millions on the Death Star still keeps him up most nights.

“I’m not going to do anything to myself,” he grumbles, and it’s the truth. He’s long since given up on the idea of refusing food and water. And even if he _wanted_ to do something rash, he wouldn’t be able to. The med bay is devoid of any potentially dangerous medical equipment. He doesn’t even get a fork to eat his meals with, just a spoon. It seems the Imps have already pegged him as potentially suicidal.

That option was off the table from the very beginning.

“I’m still not going to risk it,” Piett says. “Make no mistake, Commander; my job and my _life_ will always come first to me, and if I have to watch over you all day to make sure both of those things stay intact, I’ll do it happily.”

Luke can’t find it in himself to blame the Captain for having some sense of self-preservation. He would probably rather be doing many other things besides babysitting him.

Besides, he’s not bad company. At least Luke knows he doesn’t have to fear a man under strict orders to keep him safe.

He shovels some more food into his mouth, washing it down with water from a plastic cup.

“So, is Vader gonna come visit me again?”  
Since their last very confusing meeting when Luke woke from his bacta treatment, Vader hasn’t made an appearance in the med bay. Luke has been left to go over their conversation again and again in his head. Vader’s last words before he left that day especially unnerve him.

_‘Your lack of training will soon be rectified, young one.’_

Captain Piett raises an eyebrow.

“What makes you think I know the answer to that?” he asks, though not unkindly. “Lord Vader doesn’t answer to anyone besides himself. And the Emperor, of course.”

“Is the Emperor the one who ordered for me to be treated, then?”

Captain Piett scoffs.

“No matter how important you may be in the rebellion, I doubt he would bother with you,” he says. “Lord Vader has plans for you, but whatever those plans are, they’re his own.”

The thought of what those “plans” could be sends chills up Luke’s spine. He wishes Vader would just do whatever it is he planned to do. He wants the suspense to end, even if it means his own death.

Waiting is torture.

Captain Piett leans forward in his seat, eyeing Luke’s bowl.

“You should eat quicker.”

Luke rolls his eyes and shoves another spoonful into his mouth.

The food isn’t awful. It’s about as mediocre as the food he ate with the Alliance. But at least then, he ate with Leia or Han or Wedge, not an Imperial Captain who’s required to keep him from starving himself.

Thinking of his friends brings an unexpected lump to his throat. He would give anything to be back at base with them, breaking up an argument between Han and Leia or trading stories with Wedge. He swallows the lump down.

_Force, I miss them._

Shoving the rest of the food into his mouth, he pushes the bowl to Captain Piett.

“F’nshed.”

Captain Piett takes the bowl, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Did the rebels teach you to talk with your mouth full?”

Luke forces back a grin, swallowing the rest of his meal.

“No, actually, it was my rough upbringing on Tatooine,” he jokes.

He almost winces thinking about the scolding he would receive from Aunt Beru for having such bad table manners.

In a strange way, he misses that too.

“I’ll see you at dinner time, Commander.”

Luke feels a pang of disappointment. Captain Piett is his only companion, besides the medic who rarely speaks to him. When he leaves, Luke is always overcome with boredom and restlessness.

Part of him knows he should feel guilt for enjoying the company of an Imperial, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t push that guilt away.

“Until then, Captain.”

The door slides shut behind Captain Piett, leaving Luke alone. Again.

It’ll be hours until the medic comes, and then _another_ few hours until Captain Piett will come back from dinner. That leaves Luke to his own devices for the majority of the day.

He jumps to his feet and kicks the chair in frustration.

There must be _something_ he could be doing instead of sitting around and staring at the wall. He could at least be looking for a way out. Or maybe finding a makeshift weapon in case he needs to fight his way out.

He’s grown too complacent since being transferred to the med bay. He’s forgetting what he is; a prisoner. The enemy. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if they deemed his useless.

Sitting around and waiting for that to happen won’t do him or the Alliance any good.

Days of examining the room in boredom has shown him that there’s only two small vents, both of which are firmly glued into the wall. There’s no way he’s going to get through them.

Even if he could, he doesn’t see much of a chance of sneaking past hundreds of Imperial officers and Darth Vader.

That rules out an escape. But maybe he can still find something to use as a weapon, just in case. If they’re going to kill him, he’s not going down without a fight.

He first considers trying to break the medical droid and pull out a scalpel or something else sharp, but he quickly abandons the idea. It would be too obvious if the medic or Captain Piett walked in and saw a torn apart droid. Besides, he has nothing to take it apart with.

Kneeling beside his cot, he feels underneath for springs he could rip out.

_Nothing._

He considers the chair and table where he eats his meals, but once again, that would be too obvious. There’s no good excuse he could give Captain Piett as to why one of the chairs is missing a leg.

Out of options in the med bay, he retreats to the ‘fresher.

The tiny space isn’t much to look at. It has a sonic shower, a toilet, a sink, and a small mirror situated above it.

It’s the mirror that catches Luke’s attention. Or rather, his reflection in the mirror.

He’s never had much use for mirrors. On Tatooine, most people preferred not to see their eyes red from sand blowing in them or their skin tanned and prematurely wrinkled from years of labor under the twin suns. Mirrors weren’t considered a necessity. Uncle Owen had a single, small mirror he used for shaving; Luke used that mirror on a few occasions to check and see if he was growing facial hair too. Much to his disappointment, he never did.

The Alliance doesn’t have money to waste on mirrors or other superficial items. They can barely afford to feed and clothe the troops they have.

Luke has such little use for mirrors that he never even glanced at this one the few times he’s had to use the ‘fresher. Why bother?

Now he can’t take his eyes off it.

An angry red and purple bruise mars his cheek. His hair is darker now that it’s not being bleached by the twin suns. His skin is paler, too.

Were his cheekbones always this prominent? He doesn’t think so.

He’s always been lean, but now he’s bordering on underweight.

But the biggest difference he sees in his face is his eyes. What it is about his eyes that are different, he can’t quite tell. They’re the same size, the same shape, and the same shade of blue they’ve always been. However, something about them throws him off.

He doesn’t see the boy he was only a year before.

He tears his eyes away from his reflection, admonishing himself. Staring in the mirror and thinking of the past is a waste of time. Who cares if he’s changed? He’s in the middle of a war. War changes _everyone_. He should be continuing his search for a weapon, not lamenting his—

_Wait._

His gaze drifts to the mirror once more, but this time, he’s not focused on his reflection.

If he could find a way to break the mirror without raising any alarm, a shard of it would make for a decent weapon.

Punching the mirror is immediately out. It would tear up his knuckles, and he doesn’t think he could explain that away to the medic. They took his shoes, so he can’t kick it either. That leaves him with one more option.

Bracing himself, Luke rams his elbow as hard as he can into the mirror.

No cracks appear in the mirror, but a shock-like pain shoots up Luke’s arm, temporarily numbing it. Huttese curses spill from his lips as he shakes his arm out. He must have hit a nerve.

Giving himself a few seconds to recover, Luke drives his elbow back into the mirror. This time, he hears a distinctive crack that tells him he’s making progress.

A few small cracks are starting to form in the center of the mirror. Luke hits the same spot again, and then again, until the spiderweb of cracks spread throughout the mirror. Shards of glass rain down onto the sink, the floor, and Luke’s arm.

He yelps and jumps back, shaking the glass off of his body. His free hand slides up and down his arm, searching for any injuries. There are no tears in the thick, Imperial-issued sweatshirt he’s wearing.

He never thought he would be grateful to the Imps for anything, much less their choice in clothing.

After kneeling down and carefully sweeping the remaining glass into his palm, he deposits it in the toilet and flushes it down. He doesn’t even think about it, he just wants to get rid of it and he can see no other way how. Part of him wonders if the glass will do something to the drainage system and flood the whole med bay. But after a few seconds pass and the toilet doesn’t explode back in his face, he figures the danger has passed.

A large, jagged piece of glass sticks out, still intact at the bottom corner of the mirror. Luke plucks it out of the frame with his thumb and index finger and holds it as far from his body as possible, as if it’s going to fly out of his hands and towards his throat.

He rushes out of the ‘fresher and makes a beeline for his cot. The glass shard slips perfectly into the pillow case, hidden from the prying eyes of the medic and Captain Piett.

Luke hopes to the Force that he’ll never be given a reason to use it.

* * *

Over a week without receiving a transmission from his master has set Vader on edge. He’s learned time and time again that the longer he goes without having to see his master, the more difficult the next task he’s given will be.

Palpatine is no doubt locked away in his throne room right now, waiting in delight to give Vader a mission that will further crush his spirit and show him his place; forever a puppet to his master.

Now that he knows his master lied to him about Padmé’s death, any shred of loyalty he may have felt towards his master has vanished. His resentment for the man has only grown stronger these past few days. What was once an anger that he kept hidden away deep inside himself is now a bright, seething hatred that he must struggle to conceal in the Force.

He doesn’t want to tip his master off about his newfound hatred towards him, though he’s sure he knows that Vader doesn’t stay with him out of reverence. Palpatine is a smart man; he must know that if Vader wasn’t in this life-support suit, he would jump at the opportunity to dethrone him.

But with his son, he could make that a reality.

It will take time and training, not to mention the effort it will take to keep it a secret from the Emperor. But the boy has the potential to surpass even him in skill.

Vader just has to make sure nothing happens to his son until then; a task that’s proving more difficult than originally thought.

“Admiral!” he barks in Ozzel’s general direction.

Ozzel quickly dismisses the subordinate he was speaking with and hurries over to Vader.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Who was responsible for the removal of the interrogation droid in cell 47b?” he asks, eerily calm.

The droid that was assigned to his son’s cell has disappeared without a trace. Vader has torn the ship apart looking for it. Or rather, looking for its recording device.

Every interrogation droid is equipped with a recording device to make sure both that interrogators follow procedure, and do not embellish details of their interrogation in their reports afterwards. Too many soldiers are eager to take credit for capturing high profile rebels such as his son, they’re willing to lie about the information they received during the interrogation.

That tape reveals his son’s identity.

It reveals that he was the one to blow up the Death Star.

Though Vader was able to power the droid down before any more sensitive information could be revealed, that droid is still a danger to his son in the hands of anybody besides himself.

Ozzel darts to his station, gathering up his data pad. He walks back to Vader as he scrolls through it, looking increasingly confused.

“My Lord, I’m not quite sure what you mean. Cell 47b is still occupied. The interrogation droid should still be there.”

Vader’s hands clench at his sides.

No one besides Piett, the medic, and himself know that Luke isn’t in that cell. Vader made it clear that Luke was his prisoner to interrogate. No one had any reason to go near him. But if that droid was removed with no record of who removed it, that means someone else knows.

Someone else knows that he isn’t there anymore.

Someone else knows that his name is Luke Skywalker, son of Anakin Skywalker.

_Someone else knows that he blew up the Death Star._

“Very well. You are dismissed, Admiral.”

And if someone else on this ship knows, that means it’s only a matter of time before the Emperor himself knows.


	8. Chapter 8

Luke swallows the rest of the tasteless rations, pushing his empty bowl towards Captain Piett.

Day 4 of his imprisonment in the med bay is looking like every other day so far.

“Are you _sure_ you can’t tell me what system we’re in?” Luke asks. “Not even a hint? Maybe the name of a planet we’re near?”

Captain Piett sighs and grabs the bowl, standing up to leave.

“As I told you the last _five times you asked_ , Commander, I’m not permitted to give you any potentially sensitive information.”

_Eh, it was worth a shot._

“Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll see you at…”

Luke’s words die on his lips.

His chest feels as though it’s filling up with ice water, constricting his lungs painfully. His eyes dart towards the door. He’s not sure how he knows where to look, but the reaction is automatic.

In the time it takes for Captain Piett to ask “Commander?”, Darth Vader sweeps into the room.

The icy presence Luke felt before grows stronger, threatening to suffocate him. He wonders how he never noticed it before, this _feeling_ that follows Vader wherever he goes. The coldness he always feels in Vader’s presence is easy enough to write off as fear, but not when it’s this strong. Does it have something to do with the Force?

Once again, Luke wishes that he still had Ben to teach him these things.

“Captain, you are dismissed.”

Piett nods in deference to Vader, muttering an “of course, my Lord” before retreating from the room.

Luke wishes he could follow.

His gaze drifts down to the floor in an effort to avoid Vader’s eyes— er, _mask_. He’s afraid that if he looks directly at him, that icy feeling will choke the life out of him.

Is that how he chokes people to death without actually touching them? Luke’s never thought about the mechanics of it. He just knows it’s a power that Vader possesses— that is, if the stories he hears are true…

“Are you afraid of me, Skywalker?”

Luke’s pride forces him to look up at Vader. It takes a huge amount of his self-control not to tremble as he schools his face into a neutral expression.

“I’m not,” he insists.

He wishes it were true.

Vader takes a step towards him. And then another. And then another, until he’s standing right across from Luke.

“You’re lying,” Vader states calmly. “You _are_ afraid of me, but you have no reason to be. I have no intention of hurting you.”

The icy feeling that took a hold of Luke fades, allowing him to breathe a little easier. He doesn’t know what it means. It could be Vader purposefully loosening his grip in order to win his trust.

“You expect me to believe that?” he scoffs.

Vader’s hand grips the back of the empty chair in front of him, but he doesn’t sit down. Luke wonders if he even _can_ sit down in that suit.

“I’m many things, child, but a liar is not one of them.”

_‘Child’._

Luke _loathes_ being called a child, especially by Vader. He hasn’t been a child since that day on the Death Star, and it’s partially _his_ fault.

“And why should I believe you?” he asks.

“Reach out through the Force and check my intentions for yourself.”

Luke eyes Vader warily, hesitant to follow his instructions. It _seems_ innocent enough, but with Vader, no use of the Force is innocent. He only has vague ideas of what the “Dark Side” really is, so how would he be able to recognize it if Vader tricked him into using it?

But he can sense that Vader won’t let him refuse, so he has no choice but to comply.

Focusing as hard as he can, Luke tries to reach out to touch Vader’s presence in the Force. The action feels foreign to him, and he questions if he’s even doing it correctly. He gently prods at Vader’s mind, and the other man lets him in willingly. He searches for the sincerity in Vader’s words.

And he finds it.

He retracts from Vader’s mind eagerly. Even if he didn’t go far, he knows there’s a lot in there he doesn’t want to see.

“I assume you found what you were looking for?”

Luke did, but it only annoys him further. He understands even less about his situation than he did to begin with. He’s a rebel. He blew up the Death Star. There’s a bounty on his head that could buy enough food for an entire _planet_. But not only does Vader _not_ want him dead, he doesn’t even plan on harming him in any way.

“If you don’t want to hurt me, then what _do_ you want from me?” he asks. “To make me your apprentice? Your spy in the Alliance? Your slave?”

Something resembling a growl emanates from Vader’s mask, and Luke knows that he’s said something wrong. The hand holding onto the chair tightens until he can hear a crack form in the wood.

“I do not want you as my _slave_ ,” he snaps, venom in his tone. “Tatooine may condone such barbaric practices, but I don’t tolerate it.”

Luke scoots back slightly in his chair, expecting a slap to the face. Vader is usually unaffected by his or anyone else’s actions, despite Luke’s continued efforts to antagonize him. Now, Luke can feel the rage rolling off him through the Force.

It’s terrifying.

Vader lets go of the chair, the anger surrounding him dissipating. He flexes his fists a few times, as if he’s trying to calm himself down. Luke relaxes just slightly.

_Vader said he wouldn’t hurt me,_ he reminds himself. _And I’m just stupid enough to believe it._

“I did not tell you my reason for keeping you here because I did not believe you were ready to hear it,” he begins. “But now I fear we may not have much time left together. I need to tell you the truth _now_.”

Luke raises an eyebrow, waiting for Vader’s explanation. Whatever it is, he’s sure it has something to do with his Force abilities. Whether Vader wants to use him as his own or hand him over to the Emperor as some sort of twisted gift, he’s sure he wouldn’t be getting this treatment if he was any other non Force sensitive rebel.

Vader places a hand on the table, leaning closer to him.

“I did not kill your father.”

Luke rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know what you think you have to gain from lying to me, but it won’t—,”

“I did not kill your father,” Vader repeats. “I _am_ your father.”

* * *

Vader had no plans of revealing his identity to the boy this soon. If he had any choice in the matter, he would have been well into training the boy before he told him the truth. But circumstances have forced his hand.

He has yet to find whoever it is onboard who stole the tape of Luke’s interrogation, and it’s only a matter of time until the Emperor finds out its contents. Vader has no doubt that whoever took it is one of the many agents his Master assigns to his ship to keep an eye on him.

When his Master finds out about his son, the boy will be ripped from him a second time. Possibly even killed.

He has to protect Luke, even if that means sending him away, but that will be impossible if the boy refuses to comply with his father’s so called “murderer”.

Luke needs to know how dire his situation is.

And he _deserves_ to know the truth.

But the stubborn child is steadfastly denying it.

“You’re lying,” he whispers. “That’s not true. That’s _impossible_.”

The boy continues to hang onto an idealized version of the father he never met; Anakin Skywalker, the Jedi. In his mind, his father lived and died a hero. Vader is not that man.

His hand twitches. He idly wonders if it’s malfunctioning.

“Search your feelings, you _know_ it to be true.”

However untrained the boy may be, he picks up on things quickly. Vader only had to tell him once to reach out to him through the Force and the boy did so with remarkable ease.

Luke closes his eyes tightly, shaking his head. Vader can practically see the battle going on inside his head. He doesn’t want to accept the truth, but the Force is shoving him towards it. It’s the same way Vader felt when he learned he had a son.

At last, the boy seems to accept it. He slumps down in his chair, holding his head in his hands. His shoulders tremble with what Vader can only assume are sobs. Devastation bleeds through him in the Force.

Vader didn’t expect the boy to be ecstatic at the news of their relation, but he didn’t expect… _this_. He acts as though being his son is the worst fate imaginable. Does the boy not know that Vader would give him anything he desired? Does he not know that Vader would capture all the stars in the galaxy and gift them to him if he just asked?

Does he not know that Vader would give him the Emperor’s throne?

“Your full name and confession to destroying the Death Star was taped, and the tape has been stolen,” Vader says, getting right to business. “I’m doing everything in my power to find the person who took it and get it back, but it may be in the Emperor’s hands already. When he finds out you’re my son, he will either kill you or shape you into a perfect apprentice.”

_‘And make you kill me’,_ he almost adds.

Luke doesn’t respond. His hands have since fallen from his face, but now he just stares down at the table with a blank expression.

Vader feels frustration bubbling up in his chest. Doesn’t the boy realize that his own life is at stake?

“You don’t understand the gravity of your situation, young one,” he growls. “If the Emperor gets his hands on you—,”

“This changes nothing,” Luke interrupts softly.

Vader’s hand twitches again.

“What?”

His son looks up from the table, tears still lingering on his cheeks.

“Even if you’re my father, it doesn’t change anything,” he continues. “We’re not family. Uncle Own and Aunt Beru are my family. _Ben_ is my family. Leia and Han and Wedge and the rest of the rebels are my family. You’re just my interrogator.”

Vader gathers his rage close to him, refusing to let it spill out. If he allows it to overtake him, he fears he could hurt his son. It would be too easy to reach out and let the Force close around his slender neck, so much like Padmé’s…

The thought sends a wave of revulsion through him.

“You share no blood with Kenobi, and you certainly don’t share any with the rebels,” he replies as calmly as he possibly can. “You’re my son, whether you accept that fact or not. You belong to _me_. Our destinies are inexorably intertwined.”

“You have no say in my destiny!” Luke shouts, fresh tears leaking from his eyes. “I could never be a monster like you!”

His voice trembles, as if he’s trying to convince himself as well as Vader.

Such sadness and rage the boy is carrying in his heart; it’s a perfect gateway into the Dark Side. It’s Kenobi’s teachings that are holding his son back from reaching his full potential, just as they once held _him_ back.

The old man escaped with a more merciful death than he deserved.

“You do not yet know the power of the Dark Side, Luke,” he insists. “Together, when you’ve received more training, we could destroy the Emperor. I could put _you_ on the throne and we could end this war.”

“I don’t _want_ the throne!” Luke retorts. “I’m a member of the Alliance. If you gave me the throne, I would use my power to dissolve the Empire and reinstate the Republic. Don’t you understand? I’ll never be on your side.”

Not for the first time, Vader sees flashes of Padmé in their son. He has her drive, her innate belief in the goodness of others. Like her, he doesn’t realize that people are too wicked for democracy to work.

Seeing these facets of his late wife in their son stirs something in his chest. It’s a feeling he doesn’t have a word for, at least not anymore. He refuses to allow himself to dwell on it.

“The Republic fell because it had outgrown its use. If you had lived through that time, you wouldthink differently about trying to reinstate it.”

Luke runs a hand through his shaggy hair, letting out a grunt of frustration.

“I don’t wanna argue with you about politics,” he says. “I just…”

His nose scrunches up in frustration, like he’s searching for the right words.

_Padmé’s nose._

“Do you know how much you’ve taken from me?”

Vader scoffs.

“If you’re referring to _Kenobi_ —,”

“Ben is only one of many,” Luke hisses. “Your stormtroopers killed my aunt and uncle to get Death Star plans that they didn’t even have. Burned down our homestead, too. Ben was the only person I had left after that happened, and you killed him right before my eyes.”

Vader can’t bring himself to regret either of those events. They were a means to an end. They brought his son pain, but they set in motion the events that would eventually bring them together.

“You took my memories,” Luke continues. “They were all I had left of aunt and uncle, and now every time I look back on them, I’ll only think of you invading my mind.”

The reminder of the boy’s interrogation makes Vader feel a tinge of regret. It’s an unusual feeling for him.

“But worst of all, you took away the man I thought my father was.”

Vader nearly laughs at the idea that he’s competing with a fake version of _himself_ for Luke’s affections. 

Shouldn’t the boy be grateful that unlike this dream father, his actual father is still living?

“I don’t care about your negative feelings towards me,” he dismisses. “The only thing I care about, and the only thing _you_ should care about, is keeping you away from the Emperor.”

Luke scoffs.

“As if you wouldn’t hand me over the second he asked.”

The tightly wound coil that is Vader’s anger snaps at the accusation. He reaches across the table, gripping Luke by the chin. The boy’s eyes widen in shock. He’s momentarily stunned into compliance, but when he regains his wits, he tries to wiggle out of Vader’s grip. The durasteel hand is unyielding, forcing the boy to look directly at him.

“You are _mine_. He cannot have you.”

Luke shakes off the grip at last, glaring at him.

“Then what’s your plan?” he snaps. “If the Emperor already knows about me like you say he might, then how are you gonna keep him away from me?”

There’s an unspoken surrender in his words. He may still resist the idea of Vader being his father, but he’ll begrudgingly work with him if it means staying out of the Emperor’s grasp.

Vader reaches out to his son once more. This time, he uses a single finger to lift his chin up. Luke doesn’t look too happy with the touch, but he doesn’t fight it. It’s a small victory.

He may have his eyes and hair, but he has her nose, her face shape, and her soul.

“I have a few ideas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter to write, especially Vader's part. There's so much emotion involved, it can be hard to express. I hope you guys think I did a good enough job with it though. And expect to see more talk about Padme. It's a crime that most Luke and Vader fics don't even bring her up when she's literally SO IMPORTANT.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Luke does after Vader leaves him alone is rush to the ‘fresher and empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

The second thing he does is strip off his clothes and jump into the sonic shower.

He wants to feel clean, like how he felt _before_.

It doesn’t take long for the sonic shower to strip him of fours days worth of grime, but he doesn’t get out. He curls up into a ball in the corner of the shower. His cheek, hot from the angry tears that tracked down his face, rests against the cool tile wall.

He refuses to let more tears fall. Like everything else during wartime, tears are in limited supply. Certain emotions have to be compartmentalized for the sake of survival. But Luke has never been good at that. He feels things so strongly.

Uncle Owen used to say he got that from his father.

Luke slams his palm down on the floor of the shower, biting back a cry of frustration.

He’s always admired his father. Before he even got Uncle Owen to give him his father’s name, he admired him. When he thought he was only a navigator on a spice freighter, he admired him. When he thought he was a heroic Jedi Knight, he admired him.

Up until less than an hour ago, he admired him.

He used to dream about being just like his father, and now it’s the thing he fears most.

How can that… that durasteel _monstrosity_ possibly be Anakin Skywalker? How did a Jedi Knight fall so far? And most importantly… will Luke end up like that someday?

It’s a fear that Luke has been trying to deny since the second Vader revealed his true identity. He fights for the Alliance, for the Jedi, for his friends; he’s fighting for what’s right in the galaxy. He could never be like Vader, with his complete disregard for sentient life.

_But you’re already like him,_ a traitorous voice whispers from the back of his head. _You blew up the Death Star, remember? There were millions on that station. Including civilians._

He bites down on the inside his cheek to keep his tears at bay.

No matter how much he tries to tell himself that what he did was _different_ from what Vader does, his heart doesn’t quite believe it. His body count is potentially even higher than Vader’s. Even if he didn’t kill everyone on the Death Star individually, his actions still lead to their deaths. While their ashes were scattered throughout space, Luke was celebrating with his friends. That makes him a monster just like Vader, doesn’t it?

_No,_ he tells himself. _I feel guilt. Vader doesn’t. That makes us different._

Vader is a ruthless killing machine who murders without reason. Luke is just a soldier who was following orders. They’re nothing alike. That’s what he needs to tell himself.

But the seeds of doubt have already been planted in his mind, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to rip them out before they take root.

His hands go to his hair, pulling at it until he feels strands tearing out of his scalp.

Before today, he knew who he was. He was a rebel, a Jedi in training, a pilot; now he’s not sure who he is, or what he might become.

Does being the son of a monster mean he’s destined for the same fate?

He finally crawls out of the sonic shower, stumbling to his feet in front of the sink. The empty mirror frame stares back at him. He’s relieved; if he still had a mirror, he would only be able to scrutinize his appearance and try to pick out features he may have gotten from his fa-… from _Vader_.

_What does he look like under that mask?_ Luke wonders.

Of course, he’s heard stories. One Imperial defector in the Alliance claims that the suit is a life-support system, and that he once caught a glimpse of the back of Vader’s horribly scarred head when he was without his helmet. Others say that while the suit does breathe for him, he could look like any other human beneath the mask. And of course, some insist that he’s not human at all, but Luke figures his existence rules that theory out.

If Vader were to take off his mask, would he have Luke’s blond hair and blue eyes? Would he have his nose, his chin, his jaw? Would Luke be able to see himself in Vader’s face?

Luke wrenches the knob on the sink to the side, gathering water into his cupped hands and splashing himself in the face. He needs to stop dwelling on this. Like he told Vader, this changes nothing.

So why does he feel like it changes _everything_?

He stumbles out of the ‘fresher and throws himself onto his cot, bringing his knees up to his chest. The medic will be arriving soon, he thinks distantly. He should be up and ready for her, but the energy has been sapped from his body. All he wants is sleep.

He’s just had one of the worst days of his life; the medic can wait a little while.

* * *

“If you know where that tape is and continue to keep it from me, you will find out just how _expendable_ you really are, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes bulge, his face turning blue. He scratches at his throat to fend off the invisible attacker, to no avail. Vader loosens his Force grip on the smaller man’s throat just enough so he can speak.

“I-I… don’t… kn..ow… any… thing,” he chokes out. “Please…”

Vader stares down at him as he tightens his fist, simultaneously tightening the pressure on the man’s throat. With a soft _crack_ , he falls limply to the floor.

“I believe you,” Vader says to the man’s dead body.

He steps over the limp form, knowing that others will be quick to dispose of the body before it becomes too much of a nuisance. Death is a constant on Vader’s flagship. It looms over all his subordinates, reminding them of the price for any incompetence.

The Lieutenant was an agent of the Emperor, but not one important enough to be missed. Vader will be able to explain away his death easily without arousing his Master’s suspicion. But if he continues to tear through those on his ship loyal to the Emperor, his motives will not stay hidden for long.

Vader storms through the control center of the _Executor_ , watching soldiers avert their eyes and shrink in their seats to avoid him. Other, more seasoned officers barely spare him or the body a second glance.

His time is running shorter by the second, and he still has no idea where the tape may have gone. He’s gone through lists of who has clearance to the cell block, lists of people who departed the ship the day the tape went missing, lists that seemingly have no importance at all, every list he can get his hands on. Still, there’s too many suspects to get through them all single-handedly.

As he nears the med bay, he feels a pull in his chest to go to his son. It’s a strange feeling, one that Vader is unfamiliar with. He wants to be near the boy. Then when he’s in the boy’s presence, he sees vestiges of Padmé in him and immediately wants to flee. It’s a vicious cycle that he doesn’t know how to break. The boy stirs feelings him that are too similar to what _Anakin Skywalker_ would feel. He must purge himself of that soon. The boy cannot be allowed to make him weak.

His son’s distress leaks into the Force, bombarding their newly formed bond. Vader doubts that Luke knows they’ve cultivated a Force bond in these past few hours, when Luke finally acknowledged his parentage. He’s too untrained to detect it.

That will change, but not today. The boy needs time to accept his new reality and stop being so obstinate. So Vader bypasses the med bay and makes his way to this meditation chamber.

Perhaps he will find the answers he seeks in the Force.

* * *

Piett’s expression when he walks into the med bay with Luke’s dinner is cautious, if not slightly concerned. He obviously remembers Luke’s stricken expression and his abrupt dismissal from Vader earlier that day. He wordlessly hands the rations over to Luke and sits down opposite him. Luke sighs and fiddles with his spoon.

The shock and despair from earlier has faded into a numb acceptance. He has no energy to fight it anymore. The only thing he wants now is a good night’s rest and to never have to see Vader ever again.

He doubts he’ll get either.

The rations are as tasteless as ever, but they’re harder to swallow than usual. His spoonful sits in his mouth like glue. Even after throwing up earlier in the day, his appetite is still nonexistent. He forces it down more for Piett’s benefit than his own. There’s no doubt in his mind that Vader would punish the Captain for Luke’s own failure to eat.

Is that what he considers fatherly care?

If Captain Piett notices his discomfort, he doesn’t comment on it. For that, Luke is grateful.

He pushes his spoon around some more, waiting for his stomach to settle down enough for another bite.

“Captain,” he begins. “Do you have any children?”

Piett blinks at him, taken aback by the line of questioning.

“No, I never got around to it. Having a wife and children while in my line of work is… _irresponsible_ , to say the least.”

_If only Vader had gotten that memo,_ Luke thinks bitterly.

“What about your parents?” Luke presses. “Do you have parents?”

Piett raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, I _did_ ,” he answers. “Why the sudden interest in my personal life?”

Luke shrugs, trying to play it off.

“We’re both stuck here together twice a day. I might as well make conversation, right?”

It’s true enough. Conversations with Piett help pass the time and make Luke feel a little less like he’s going insane. Who else is he supposed to talk to on this ship? _Vader_?

“So does your father work for the Empire too?”

Piett shakes his head.

“No, he was a merchant. I’m the only one in my family to have a military career.”

Luke swears he heard a bit of pride in Piett’s voice when he reveals he’s the lone Imperial in his family.

“You refer to him in the past tense,” he points out. “He’s dead?”

Piett nods curtly, his expression unwavering. Luke wonders how he can be so unaffected. Even though Luke spent his entire life believing his father to be dead, it was still somewhat of a touchy subject for him. His heart always ached for the father he never knew.

He briefly wonders if he would react to his father’s actual death with the same nonchalance that Piett does, now that he knows the truth.

“Did you two not get along?”

“Not particularly,” Piett admits. “He wasn’t a kind man.”

It doesn’t take a Force sensitive to sense the resentment dripping from Piett’s tone, directed at his deceased father. It’s a resentment Luke is all too familiar with now. Perhaps they aren’t so different after all.

Though Luke doubts Piett’s father was a homicidal half-machine like his father is.

“Have you ever heard the saying “the durang fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree?”” he asks.

Piett nods.

“Do you believe that’s true?” he continues. “That we’re destined to become our parents?”

Piett’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t demand a reason for Luke’s inquiry. That’s one of the things Luke likes about him; he doesn’t ask many questions. It must be a useful trait for moving up the ranks in the Empire and not getting killed in the process.

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he admits. “But I believe it’s far too easy to follow in your parents’ footsteps. You have to make a conscious effort not to. I decided I didn’t want to become a subpar merchant and barely be able to scrape by like my father, so I did everything in my power to make sure that didn’t happen. Now I’m a Captain, and he died in poverty.”

A grin tugs on Luke’s lips. Piett’s answer was blunt and to the point, but it somehow managed to make him feel slightly better. His fear of becoming another Vader is still there, but it feels a little less glaring.

Piett gives him a pointed look that reminds him of the bowl of rations he’s expected to eat. He takes another bite. This one goes down easier than the last, so he takes another one. All the while, Piett scrutinizes him.

“ _Skywalker._ That’s not a very common last name. You’re Anakin Skywalker’s son, aren’t you?”

Luke chokes on his food.

“You _knew_ him?” he whispers.

Piett scoffs.

“I was born in the days of the Old Republic. _Everyone_ knew Anakin Skywalker.”

Luke leans back in his seat, struggling to take it all in. He’s met a few people who have claimed they knew his father personally during the Clone Wars, but he never heard anything about his father being _famous_ at the time.

“What was he known for?”

Piett hesitates, as though even speaking of the Old Republic is traitorous. Luke knows the Empire tries to stifle any information of a time before its reign. All he was told about the Old Republic in school was how corrupt it was, how it tore itself apart with war, and how then-Chancellor Palpatine valiantly stepped up as the first Galactic Emperor to save the galaxy. All useless propaganda.

“He was a General in the Clone Wars, and a Jedi,” Piett answers slowly. “They called him the Hero With No Fear. He was the poster boy for the Jedi Order itself, before its downfall.”

_If only people knew Darth Vader was once part of the Jedi they hate,_ Luke thinks bitterly.

“It’s curious,” Piett muses, mostly to himself. “From what I remember, the Jedi weren’t allowed to have spouses or children.”

Luke furrows his brow. That’s not a rule he remembers hearing about. It seems like a cruel thing to ban _love_. Surely Captain Piett is mistaken. Because if he’s telling the truth, then that means Luke’s very existence is a violation of the rules of the Jedi.

He shovels more food in his mouth to keep from having to say anything back.

“If you’re thinking of following in your father’s footsteps, I would advise against it,” Piett warns. “The Jedi were executed in the Purges after they attempted to kill the Emperor. They’re enemies of the Empire.”

Luke raises an eyebrow.

“Are you forgetting that I’m _already_ an enemy of the Empire?” he teases.

A ghost of a grin passes over Piett’s face.

“Sometimes, I believe I do.”

Luke snorts and takes another bite of his food. 

He may already be a rebel, but he’s no Jedi. Now he’s not sure he even wants to be. How great and heroic can the Jedi be if their supposed poster boy became _Vader_? 

_Oh Ben, why couldn’t you just tell me the truth?_

“Don’t worry, Captain. I have no plans to be like my father.”

He takes one last bite of his food and then pushes the bowl away.

“Finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I switched up my POVs a bit here. Instead of Luke then Vader it's Luke then Vader then Luke again. I hope that wasn't confusing for anyone! Also don't expect a super long story. At the absolute max I'd say it will be 20 chapters, but that would be if I go over the chapter amount I planned. Do with that information what you will! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Vader visits early in the morning, only minutes after Luke awakes from an uneasy sleep. The fog that lingers over his brain in those few precious moments after waking clears up the second he hears the obscenely loud respirated breathing penetrate the peaceful silence of the med bay.

Luke, still laying on his side, considers feigning sleep. He desperately wants to avoid any more confrontations with his so-called “father”. But as tempting as the idea is, it’s not realistic. Vader probably knows Luke is awake already. He seems to know _everything_.

With a long sigh, he sits up and faces Vader. He maintains a respectful distance from Luke’s cot, not making a move to come closer. It makes an odd mixture of relief and discomfort flash through him; relief that Vader’s icy Force presence isn’t pressing closer, and discomfort from not knowing what he wants this time.

Is he here to drop another life altering revelation? Perhaps he has an evil twin that he never knew about somewhere in the galaxy?

“The medic tells me that you are making more than adequate progress in your recovery.”

The sudden declaration startles Luke out of his musings. For a second, he has no idea how to respond. Vader doesn’t seem like the kind of man he could make smalltalk with, and he’s not even sure he would _want_ to.

“Then why do I still have to see her?” he finally spits out.

“Your condition is stable, but you are still malnourished,” Vader insists. “And if the bags under your eyes are any indication, you are suffering from sleep deprivation as well.”

Luke’s ears burn with embarrassment at the accusation. Malnourished is too strong of a word, he thinks. So what if he’s a little thin? He’s far too old to be reprimanded on his eating and sleeping habits, especially by the likes of Vader.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “I think my weight is the least of my concerns at the moment.”

The hiss of the respirator fills the room as Vader pauses.

“There are many things you should be concerned about, young one,” he finally says.

The implication behind Vader’s words makes Luke’s blood run cold. His hands go to rub up and down his arms, drawing out what little warmth he can.

“What’s our plan then?”

Vader tilts his helmet slightly, and Luke realizes his mistake. He said “ _our_ plan”. As if they have some sort of kinship or common goal. Even the thought of working with Vader for any reason makes his stomach turn over.

_What would Leia say? What about Han, or Wedge, or Wes and Hobbie and Dak?_

“ _My_ plan involves you remaining out of sight here in this med bay,” Vader responds. “I will not allow you to assist me in the recovery of this tape and risk the chance of exposure.”

Luke huffs. He’s spent too long in the med bay, especially for someone who isn’t even injured anymore. Of course he realizes that it’s the only place on the ship to hide out, but he’s sick of hiding out. He’s restless and aching to do something, _anything_.

“You can’t keep me here forever, you know,” he challenges.

Vader takes a step forward. It’s almost too small to notice, but the icy tendrils coming closer to Luke’s chest make it hard for him to miss.

“I can do whatever I wish, my son.”

The term of endearment makes Luke bristle.

“Please don’t call me that,” he begs. The words come out far more desperate than he intended.

It seems Vader is not moved.

“You are my son, whether you wish to acknowledge that fact or not.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” Luke shoots back.

Luke is not a person who gets angry easily. Annoyed, irritated, even vindictive, yes. But he’s always had a calm, level head. Vader just seems to love goading him into a rage like no one else can. It scares him sometimes.

“And what do you mean by that?” Vader asks, his voice deadly quiet. It’s almost enough to make Luke back down.

_Almost_.

“Fathers are… they’re supposed to… to _protect and love_ their children,” he argues. “Fathers are supposed to go to the ends of the galaxy just to make sure their children stay safe and happy. My uncle did that for me, but you never did.”

Vader’s fists clench at his side. The iciness that looms over Luke’s body seems to grow even stronger. He rubs his hands together to warm them up.

When Vader’s fists unclench, the coldness begins to retreat.

“Lars was not your blood,” he snaps. “You were stolen from me by Kenobi. _He_ was the one who denied you the chance to have a father.”

The rush of emotions that Vader is feeling come at Luke like blaster fire. Now that he's open to Vader through the Force, every emotion the other man feels is potent enough in his mind that he could almost mistake them for his own. Normally, Luke feels a block in their… _“connection”_ , as if Vader doesn’t want him to feel what he feels. But he can’t feel that block now.

He feels anger, malice, a thirst for vengeance, and… regret.

_Regret for what?_ he wonders.

He shakes the question out of his head. It’s probably just regret that he didn’t kill Luke’s aunt and uncle himself.

“He was protecting me!” Luke declares. “I was better off with them than I would have _ever_ been with you.”

Vader’s respirator seems to skip a few cycles, as if he stopped breathing for a moment. Luke wonders if he just imagined it.

“There is no such thing as “better off” on that miserable wasteland of a planet,” he hisses, venom dripping from his words. “I could have given you the galaxy.”

Though Luke silently agrees with his summary of Tatooine, he doesn’t regret a moment of his childhood. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru made him follow a long list of rules he resented at the time, but they always made sure he knew he was loved. When harvests didn’t yield enough to keep them all fed, they would go without just so Luke would have enough to eat. They wouldn’t take so much as a scrap of his food, no matter how much he offered. _That_ was love.

What Vader has shown him is far, far from it.

“I’d be better off in the Sarlacc Pit than anywhere with you,” he scoffs. “Tatooine was a boring dustball, sure, but at least my aunt and uncle loved me. Could you have done that? Are you even capable of love?”

Vader takes a few quick, giant steps forward until he’s right beside Luke’s cot. His imposing form looms over the much smaller boy, rage spilling through their Force bond. It makes Luke’s breath catch in his throat. He knows that Vader isn’t choking him, but the intensity of the anger pouring out of him is enough to rip all the air out of his lungs.

“Do not imagine to know what I can or cannot feel,” he growls. “You understand nothing. Absolutely _nothing_.”

Luke opens his mouth, but no words come out. Vader’s rage swirls around in his mind, in his heart, in the pit of his stomach. He’s never been able to feel another person’s emotions so intensely, as if they were his own. It’s equal parts intoxicating and terrifying.

“Then make me understand.”

Vader leans away from him as if he’s been slapped. He makes no move to respond, but Luke can _feel_ his eyes on him. Though he can’t see them through that opaque mask, he just knows.

A question bubbles up inside of him, too burning to ignore.

“Did you love my mother?”

The anger Vader was projecting recedes at last, allowing Luke to breathe easier. Vader turns his back on him, his mental shields going up like walls around his Force presence. Luke can’t feel anything coming from him. To be so open to someone else’s emotions only to have it ripped away feels like a punch to the stomach.

“Yes, I did,” he says at last.

Relief washes over Luke. Ever since Piett told him that the Jedi weren’t allowed to have spouses or children, he wondered if his birth was the result of some sort of affair. He worried that Vader wouldn’t even know who his mother was.

The relief is quickly replaced with confusion. Vader is a monster, a murderer, someone who shouldn’t have the emotional capacity to love. Yet Luke can feel the truth in Vader’s words. Whoever his mother was, she meant a great deal to him.

How did a man who loved someone so strongly turn into _this_?

“What was her name?” he prods.

Vader’s head jerks around to glance back at him so quickly it makes him flinch.

“You mean,” he starts, his voice deadly calm. “No one ever told you her name?”

Rage begins to swirl around him once again, but it’s tinged with some other emotions Luke can’t decipher.

“I don’t think… I-I don’t think they knew her name,” Luke sputters. “My aunt and uncle, I mean.”

Vader whirls around to face him, his rage only growing stronger.

“Kenobi knew her. He knew her and he kept it from you.”

“We didn’t have enough time,” Luke argues. “Besides, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for only asking about you and not her.”

A tense silence hangs in the air between them. The only thing Luke can hear is the creaking of leather as Vader clenches and unclenches his fists over and over again. After a few uncomfortable moments, he becomes convinced Vader will never tell him. His shoulders slump in disappointment. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. It’s not even common knowledge that Vader was once Anakin Skywalker, so he must be determined to keep his past from everyone, even his own—

“Padmé.”

Luke snaps out of his thoughts and looks up at Vader.

“What?”

“Her name,” he says. “It was Padmé.”

_Padmé._

He rolls the name around in his mind.

_Padmé, Padmé, Padmé_ …

It sounds pretty. He likes to imagine that she was pretty, too. When he was little, he used to imagine a kind woman with curly brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. He would imagine that she was somewhere in the galaxy, desperate to reunite with her son. Over the years, as he’s thought about her less and less, the image has faded from his mind. Sometimes, he misses that imaginary mother.

“What happened to her?” he asks.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the medical droid beside his bed is crushed into a ball of scrap and sparking wires. He winces at the sound of the screeching metal and the feeling that he’s asked the wrong question.

“ _Enough!_ ” Vader booms.

Luke flinches away from him in fear. He knows that he’s being ridiculous, that Vader has kept his promise not to harm him, but the memories of his interrogation are still fresh in his mind. And Vader’s so _angry_ … What if he snaps?

The anger that was threatening to consume Luke recedes just slightly. He risks a glance at Vader. The other man has backed up even further from his cot.

“I do not wish to speak of her,” he says, quieter.

Luke finally knows what that other emotion was that he felt mixing with the anger. It was sadness.

However his mother died, even thinking of it is bringing Vader great pain. The crippling intensity of it momentarily overwhelms Luke. His eyes screw shut as he tries to regain control of his own emotions. Vader seems to realize he’s projecting his own volatile feelings, because his Force presence retreats from Luke’s mind. He can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.

The urge to learn more about his mother is begrudgingly pushed down by his fear of incurring Vader’s wrath again. At least he knows her name now. That’s more than he ever knew before. But there’s still so many pieces missing from the puzzle. What was his mother like? Where was she from? How did she die? And most importantly, what the hell does Ben have to do with Luke ending up on Tatooine?

_Did Vader even know I existed before I told him my name?_ Luke wonders. _Was he looking for me all these years?_

Luke narrows his eyes at Vader, examining him in a new light. He’s a murderer; he killed Ben, he’s killed countless friends of Luke’s, and he as good as killed the entire population of Alderaan. But he was once a man who lost the woman he loved and, as far as Luke knows, his child as well. Is that what drove him to the Dark Side?

An uncomfortable ache that he recognizes as sympathy builds in his chest.

“I-I’m sorry if I brought up—,”

“It is of no consequence,” Vader interrupts. “There is simply no point in reliving the past. We have more important things to attend to.”

Luke raises an eyebrow.

“What “important things” are we talking here?”

Vader steps closer to Luke until his shin armor presses against the edge of the cot. He’s close enough to touch, but Luke feels no fear. Somehow, he knows Vader won’t hurt him. He knew it before, but now he _feels_ it.

“I’m going to teach you how to shield yourself, young one.”

* * *

Vader deserves more than a few hours in his meditation chamber for the restraint he’s shown in the past few days. His son is far too curious for his own good, and too stubborn to let a subject drop. The kind of questions he’s asking would have had Vader snapping his neck in seconds if it were anybody else. As it is, he struggles to let his anger strengthen his connection to the Dark Side while simultaneously keeping it from lashing out at his son.

He’s already seen what happens when he loses control.

But finally, he feels a shift in the air between them. His son isn’t refusing his training outright. His eyes don’t hold the same hostility they held only minutes earlier. Instead, he sees a soft curiosity in them. Even a hint of excitement.

Whatever it is that won his son’s favor, he doesn’t care to know. He just has to make sure it isn’t temporary.

“Shield myself from what?” he asks.

The boy is too inquisitive. He would not have lasted a minute under the instruction of the Jedi Order. Like his father before him, he is destined for much greater things than the Jedi.

“Only you and I know you are my son, as well as your role in the destruction of the Death Star,” he explains. “I can keep this knowledge hidden from other Force users, including the Emperor. You, however, do not have that skill. _That_ is why you must be taught how to shield.”

Luke looks as though he wants to question him further, but he slowly nods his head in assent.

“This will be painful,” Vader warns, and then without another word, he invades his son’s mind.

Luke gives a startled gasp as Vader begins to dig around in his head. He doesn’t wish to hurt his son like this, but it’s necessary to teach him with these extreme methods. Coddling him will only make it take longer to learn, and they’re under a massive time constraint.

_‘Focus on pushing me out of your mind,’_ he tells him as he delves further in. _‘Picture your shields going up like walls to close me out.’_

Luke attempts to follow his instructions, but Vader hardly feels more than a light shove. He lightly prods at a memory of Luke’s to give him some more incentive. Luke’s alarm is palpable through the Force, but he still can’t raise his shields.

_‘You have to do more than just think it,’_ he insists. _‘You have to command it. Bend the Force to your will, just as She bends you to Hers.”_

He can distantly hear Luke huffing in frustration. The boy is too much like he was once; impatient, frustrated by the abstract nature of the Force. There’s too much Anakin Skywalker in him. Vader makes a mental note to rid him of those traits in the near future.

Without another warning, he begins to sort through his son’s memories.

_“Aren’t you a little short to be a stormtrooper?”_

_…_

_“I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you!”_

_…_

_“Okay. Take care of yourself, Han. I guess that’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”_

_…_

_“For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.”_

_…_

_“I want to come with you to Alderaan. There’s nothing more for me here now. I want to learn the ways of the Force and become a Jedi like my fa—,”_

The boy reacts violently to Vader’s intrusion, lashing out at his Force presence. The pure Light the boy expels momentarily burns his Dark tendrils, but it’s not enough to push him out. He’s felt far worse.

_‘Just attacking me won’t keep me from entering your mind,’_ he reminds him. _‘The walls, Luke. Focus on building your mental walls.’_

Perhaps this method of teaching is a bit cruel, but at least Vader isn’t dredging up the things the boy wants most to keep hidden. The Emperor would not be so merciful.

So he presses on.

_“Great, kid! Don’t get cocky.”_

_…_

_“Hey, Biggs. I told you I’d make it someday.”_

_…_

_“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only—,”_

With a burst of white light, Vader feels his connection to Luke’s mind sever. He prods at the walls Luke has built to see if they’ll collapse on his command. They refuse to yield. Vader is sure if he was given enough time, he would be able to bypass them, but the fact that Luke was able to erect such strong walls in the first place is admirable. He’s more impressed by his son than he would dare to admit.

The boy is trembling and breathing heavily from the exertion, but his eyes hold a determined glint that Vader knows far too well. He’s using all his waning mental strength to keep those shields up. If he were better trained, shielding would be second nature to him. One day’s worth of practice isn’t enough to perfect even the simplest of Force practices.

But it’s better than nothing.

“I hated that,” Luke breathes.

“Noted. Now rest.”

Luke’s nose scrunches up in confusion.

“But I just woke up.”

“And you have already overexerted yourself, so now you’re going rest,” he commands. “Unless of course, you wish to perfect your shielding instead?”

The thinly-veiled threat earns him a scowl, but it has the desired effect. Luke throws his Imperial-issue blanket over himself and presses his face down into the pillow rather dramatically.

“I resent this, Father,” he retorts, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I will make a note of that as well. Now _sleep_.”

His son succumbs to the suggestion placed in his mind, slipping into unconsciousness. He’s strong in the Force. Vader knows he could have resisted it if he wanted to. He must have chosen to allow it. To some degree, he must trust Vader enough to give him that power.

Vader tears his eyes away from the sleeping boy and rushes out of the med bay, heading towards his meditation chamber. Perhaps if he immerses himself in the Force, he will stop hearing Luke’s voice saying “Father”. 

The distant echo is making his weak heart speed up for reasons he cannot determine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Force is a female energy who still managed to impregnante Shmi and you can fight me on this


End file.
